Úcenite
by Spamberguesa
Summary: Úcenite: translation, "not-seeing" Tauriel loses more than Kili in the Battle of the Five Armies: injury destroys her eyes. She must learn to live without her sight as well as without him - if she decides living is worth the effort. Thranduil is determined that she will.
1. Prologue

Based off a prompt from the Hobbit Kink Meme: 'Blind Tauriel'. I I haven't fulfilled the request exactly, mostly because somebody else is already doing a fantastic job of that, but this is a variation on the theme.

* * *

Thranduil had expected to find Tauriel grieving her dwarf, and he was not wrong. He had not, however, expected _all_ that he found.

The first, most shocking thing was the amount of blood – black from the orc filth that had killed Oakenshield's nephew, and a ruby-red pool that could not possibly have all come from the dwarf. Though Tauriel's head was bowed, her face obscured by her hair, dark stains had wicked down the fabric of her tunic, turning the green an odd shade of murky brown. Her hands were smeared with it, great sections of hair wet and sticky. She was shivering, though the air was not nearly cold enough to affect an Elf.

"They want to bury him," she said, not looking up. The wounds that killed the dwarf had not touched his face; at a glance, he might only have been sleeping.

"Yes," Thranduil said, as gently as he could. Furious though he had been with her, he knew, all too well, the pain she suffered now. Her love, he had realized, was no less real than his for his wife, for all it was so new. She would carry it with her until the end of her days.

She said nothing, nor did she rise. Her fingers traced Kili's features over and over, as though memorizing them by touch, leaving rusty trails in their wake. Thranduil had little doubt that if she were allowed, she would sit there until she starved.

"Tauriel," he said again, still gently. Only now did she raise her head, and he froze.

Her face was streaked with gore, so much so that it looked like a ghoulish mask. Her fight with Bolg had gone more ill than he thought, and at first the source of all that blood was difficult to identify. Not until she brushed the hair form her face did he realize, and his heart lurched.

Bolg had cut her right across the face – a clean, almost straight line from temple to temple. Right through her eyes. Such precision could only have been deliberate; the orc meant to cripple her, then toy with her like a cat with a mouse.

She did not seem to feel the true pain of it yet, but that was a thing he had seen on many a battlefield: the agony of major injury kept at bay until the body could bear it no longer. Shock, the healers called it. It would, he knew, wear off soon enough.

He could not have banished her now, even had he still wished to. With such a grievous injury, she would not last a week on her own. She might last little more than that even with care, but he meant to see that she received it. For she and Legolas had been right, slow though he was to see it. He had lost his son, however temporarily; he would not lose Tauriel. Not if he could help it.

"You will have to take him, my lord," she said, far too calmly. "You can see why I cannot do it myself."

Her head turned when he stepped toward her, her ruined eyes blank beneath their film of drying blood. "Rest, Tauriel," he said, laying his right hand on her hair. "Sleep, and know no pain."

* * *

The Halls of the Woodland Realm were not so heavily populated that news of Tauriel's banishment was slow to pass through them. When the King's host returned, diminished by nearly a third, word that she had drawn her bow on him passed even more swiftly, but it was mentioned almost as an afterthought, tacked on to the gruesome tale of her eyes.

Of all the senses, sight was most precious to the Eldar. In ages past, traitors had been blinded as a punishment – but not as Tauriel had been. The Elven method was painless, and could be reversed after whatever length of time was deemed fit punishment. No Elf now living had the capacity for such cruelty as had been meted out to her.

She was brought to the healing wards with a heavy bandage wound around her head, secure over her eyes. Though many had been given cordials against pain, she alone was kept fully unconscious, so deeply asleep she scarcely seemed to breathe. The others, patients and healers alike, moved quietly, careful not to wake her.

"There is little to be done, my lord," the healer Ríniel said frankly, when Thranduil asked. "We will induce cataracts to protect what remains of her eyes, but I do not think the damage will ever heal. She may well be blind for the rest of her life."

"But she will live?"

"If she has the will for it."

Oh, she would. Thranduil would see to that, no matter what he had to do to ensure it.

* * *

When Tauriel woke, she was not at first certain that she had. Her body felt boneless, her head light and floaty – poppy-milk, she realized. She never had liked the effects of it, the way it dulled both sense and instinct. She was clean and warm and comfortable, the scent of smoke and bitter herbs suggesting she was in the healing wards. How? The last thing she remembered was—

Kili. Bolg. The knife that slashed through her eyes, the pain hot and brief, driven away by grief and rage. Kili was gone, torn from her forever, and her _eyes_—

She realized she was moaning, a low, agonized keening drawn from her throat as she curled into a ball. Her physical wounds she could not feel, but the agony in her chest had nothing to do with any injury sustained in battle. Sweet Eru, why was she not dead? Why would anyone bring her here, save her, after all that she had done?

Why would anyone be so cruel?

"Shh, child." The soft hand of one of the healers – Ríniel, by her voice – smoothed the hair back from Tauriel's forehead. "All will be well."

Tauriel didn't bother asking how. It could not be, ever. Her heart was torn asunder, her sight was gone – for all she knew, her eyes themselves might be gone. Nothing would ever be well again.

"Why?" she asked, unable to elaborate. _Why am I here? Why am I alive?_

"Your time on this earth is not yet spent, Tauriel," Ríniel said, stroking her hair. "Your song has not ended. There are still things you must do."

She could not imagine what, or why, or how, and she had not the energy to ask. Mercifully, sleep claimed her again, and she did not wake to her grief for a long while.

* * *

When next consciousness returned to her, it brought pain. It was not terrible or crippling; it was merely a dull ache in her head, where her eyes should be. Cautious fingers explored her face – yes, her eyes remained, though she could not feel her own touch against them. They felt alien beneath her fingertips, as warm as her body, but they did not yield under gentle pressure.

Just what had the healers done?

"Stop that."

Ríniel's voice made Tauriel jump. The healer took her hand, drawing it away from her face. "The wound has largely healed, but don't fuss at it. If you infect it, you will only stay here longer."

"Where else am I to go?" Tauriel asked wearily. "I am of use to nothing and no one like this." She was useless and Kili was gone. She would never even see his grave.

Tears burned in whatever remained of her eyes, creeping hot down her cheeks. If this was love, she did not wonder why Thranduil was willing to live a life without it.

"You can learn to live without your sight, child," Ríniel said. "It will not be easy, but it has been done before."

_How am I to live without my heart?_ she wondered silently.

* * *

At first, she refused to eat. It wasn't difficult; hunger was the last thing on her mind. Not until Ríniel threatened to tie her down and force-feed her did she relent, and even then, it was only bowls of broth. Evidently the healer thought it better than nothing, for she relented. So long as Tauriel at least ate that, the threats stopped.

No one had come to visit, but that did not surprise her in the least. Even yet she wondered that she had been saved at all, but Ríniel would give her no answers. She did not ask about anything that went on outside her room; it was easier not to know.

The fact that she could not do even small tasks by herself irked her. Ríniel drew her baths, laid out her clothes – she even brushed Tauriel's hair, though that at least could have been accomplished without aid. Tauriel didn't see the point in any of it, but Ríniel could be more stubborn even than she was, which was slightly terrifying, honestly.

Fighting her was pointless, so after a while, Tauriel stopped trying to. She let Ríniel badger her back to something like health, preparing her to return to her own room and resume whatever ghost of a life remained to her. As soon as she could be left to her own devices, she would Fade, and then nothing would hurt anymore.

* * *

Poor Tauriel. I can already tell this one is going to be heavy on the angst, but never fear - I'm a sucker for a happy ending. She won't stay miserable forever. Certainly she's going to find out that Thranduil has no intention at all of letting her Fade.


	2. Despair and Hope

In which life goes on, whether Tauriel wants it to or not.

* * *

Tauriel was bound and determined to Fade. Unfortunately, it seemed half the damnable population of the Woodland Realm was unwilling to let her.

No sooner had she returned to her own room than she became inundated with visitors: fellow guards, healers, other surviving soldiers, and over a dozen minor nobles she had only ever spoken to in passing. At first she assumed it was curiosity, or pity, or some mixture of the two, and perhaps for some it was, in the beginning.

The odd thing was that none of them asked any questions at all about the battle, about what happened to blind her. Perhaps, by now, everyone already knew. She still did not know just how long she had spent in the healing wards, and felt no pressing need to ask.

It was Falchon, one of the guardsmen she had trained, who first dragged her – literally – out of her room.

"You cannot stay shut away forever," he insisted, ignoring her protests as he led her by the hand. Amaniel, one of Tauriel's best lieutenants, walked behind her, so that she need not wonder who or what followed. "It is said among the Edain that those who lose their sight find their other senses grow keener. You will never train them if you make no effort."

In a way, it was comforting to hear him speak of her blindness so openly. No one else had yet done so; they tiptoed around it, addressing it only in offers of assistance. Falchon always had been too blunt, but just now she strangely welcomed it, even if she had no intention at all of doing what he said. She _would_ fade, damn it all, if anyone would only give her the chance. Though everyone she had spoken with had been remarkably accepting, the fact remained that Tauriel was completely useless. She couldn't even sharpen weapons without the risk of losing a finger.

She stumbled over an uneven patch in the floor, and bit back a curse. The dimensions of her room she had memorized, to the point where it had been nearly a week since she'd run into anything, but she did not relish the thought of making an utter fool of herself by tripping over something where anyone could see her.

"Where are we?" she asked. If she could call up the location in her memory, she might be better aware of her surroundings, and thus less likely to stumble again.

"We approach the gate," Amaniel said. "Mind your step – there are stairs ahead."

Tauriel was not at all pleased by that, but she trusted Falchon to keep her from falling. She slowed markedly when they reached the stairs, cursing her hesitance but unable to overcome it. Her boots shuffled as she tentatively sought the edge of each step, hoping there were none nearby to observe her. It would, she knew, be far worse when they reached outdoors, where she would be at the mercy of every stone and stick and tree-root. This was a terrible idea; she should have kicked Falchon as soon as he took her hand.

And yet, when the gate was opened, when she felt fresh air on her face, she could not find it in herself to curse him. It was bitingly cold – winter must have set in in earnest, for it smelled of snow. The sun had to be shining, however, for when they stepped outside, she sensed its faint warmth on her skin.

It was too much. She felt it, yes, but she would never see it again, no matter how many more thousands of years she lived. The thought arrested her where she stood, her sudden stop yanking Falchon to a halt.

The snow would be sparkling, she knew, the flecks of frost on the trees glittering like diamonds. All the world would seem white and still, but she only knew it from memory, and only ever would.

"Tauriel?" Falchon asked.

"I can't," she said, unable to hold back the hot sting of tears in her ruined eyes. When they escaped, they swiftly froze on her cheeks, leaving her skin feeling tight and dry, stretched like a leather mask. "Take me back to my room. I should never have come here."

She fancied she could_ feel_ Falchon and Amaniel look at one another. Eru, _why_ could they all not simply let her Fade in peace? Could they not see that this bitter lingering brought nothing but pain?

"Just_ do it_," she snarled, tugging on Falchon's hand. It was a warning; if he fought her in earnest, she would break his arm. "I cannot stay here. Take me inside, before I throw myself off the bridge."

That shifted him, as she had known it would. Amaniel took her left hand, leading her back indoors, away from the taunting reminder of all that she had lost. Tauriel's tears remained silent, but she knew it would not be long before she utterly broke down. She prayed to whatever Valar might be listening that she would not do so in public.

Navigating the stairs was easier this time, at least: she did not feel as if she would lurch into empty air with each step. It still took far longer than she would like, and when she reached the top, a voice made her nearly jump out of her skin.

"That was foolish. I would have expected you to know better, Falchon." It was the King, standing very close, and Tauriel almost recoiled. She still had no idea why he had allowed her to be brought home and healed, but she lived in daily fear that he would change his mind and cast her out. Fading was one thing; being eaten by a spider was quite another.

"I am sorry, my lord," Falchon said, his voice stricken with guilt as well as fear. "I was only trying to help."

"I know, and that is why I will not reprimand you for it. Come, Tauriel. I have something for you."

_That_ was bewildering, but she had no time to think on it. Falchon and Amaniel released her hands, leaving her bereft until the King touched her shoulder.

"Count your steps," he said, leading her forward. "I will not let you fall." His arm went around her shoulders as she did so, guiding her straight along the high path. The King so rarely touched anyone, even Legolas, that the action shocked her into silence. That was just as well, because it made counting her steps easier. The lump in her throat dissolved, her incipient flood of tears receding.

"Stairs," Thranduil said. "Twenty-five of them. Go as slowly as you need to."

Tauriel was rather ashamed of just how slow her need was. She wanted to ask him why he was doing this, why he cared, but she could not do so in a place where she risked being overheard. Not knowing who might be around her at any given time was one of the most frustrating aspects of her blindness, because it meant she could never be sure of whether or not she was being observed.

Thranduil let her be silent as they walked, speaking only to warn her of more stairs, or a steep rise of the floor. She began counting her steps anew each time they reached the top of a staircase, though she could not hope to remember it all. It could not hurt to try.

Their destination was a room that smelled of smoke and spice and parchment, and he guided her to sit on what felt like a sofa. Seated, she felt far more secure.

"You had no idea I was there, did you?" Thranduil asked, his voice moving away from her.

"No, my lord," Tauriel said, turning her head in an attempt to track his progress. It was almost impossible; Elves could move so silently that even their own could not hear them.

"You must hone your sense of smell," he said, and there came the sound of liquid pouring into a cup. "I know you have memorized all the scents of the forest, but you can learn to identify each of us by scent as well, with practice." He pressed a goblet into her hand – hot mulled wine, though thankfully not Dorwinion. She did not want to sleep yet.

"I have this for you," he added, his voice crossing the room while she sipped her wine. After the chill of the outdoors, however brief, its warmth was welcome. "Edain lose their sight all too easily. Those that do often use something like this to aid them." He took her free hand, wrapping it around what felt like a long stick. "Stand."

Tauriel did, more bewildered than ever, wondering what use a stick would be.

"You use it thus," Thranduil said, guiding her hand to sweep the stick back and forth, the tip dragging across the flagstones. "When it hits something, you will know there is an object in your path before you trip over it, so that you may move about with more confidence. What Falchon did today was misguided, but he was right in getting you out of your room. I will not have you Fading."

"Why not?" she choked out, unable to stop herself. "Why are you helping me, my lord, after what I did?" The tears she'd thought were at bay now threatened again, and this time she did not know if she could stop them.

He sighed. "Because, though you will never hear me admit this again, you were half right," he said. "Too long have I thought the lives of any but my own people worth nothing. I was not always so. And I think you understand now why I have so closed myself away from emotion."

Tauriel failed to swallow a sob, dropping the stick, and very nearly dropping her goblet. She wanted to apologize, but the words stuck in her throat until she took a large gulp of her wine. "I was a fool, my lord," she said, her voice hoarse and unsteady. "A fool, and a cruel one at that. I should never have said such a horrible thing."

Thranduil guided her back to her seat. "You spoke the truth as you knew it," he said. "Few enough dare do that anymore. You are honest to a fault, Tauriel, and that is why I would not have you Fade. I need that honesty – all the more now because we have true neighboring kingdoms again. The Dwarves had great respect for you – if anyone can keep their friendship, it is you."

"They do?" she asked, genuinely startled.

"They know you saved Oakenshield's nephew once," he said, and she heard the scrape of a chair on the floor as he drew it up to sit before her. "And they know what a grievous injury you took, trying to save him again. While you can no longer be a warrior, you can be something for me now infinitely more valuable. I need a diplomat, if I am to retain the goodwill of the new King under the Mountain."

The statement floored her. "So that is what she meant," Tauriel murmured, mostly to herself.

"Who?"

"Ríniel. She told me that there were things yet that I must do."

"She is a wise creature," Thranduil said.

"My lord, how is it you know so much about blindness? You guide me far better than Falchon, careful though he was."

He sighed again. "What I will tell you – and show you, after a fashion – is something few now living know," he said. She jumped a little when he took her hand. "I was wounded by dragonfire, long ago," he explained, guiding her hand to his face. The skin beneath her fingertips was hard, and ridged with old scar tissue – it felt every bit as alien as her eyes. He must hide it with magic, because she had certainly never seen it. "I am blind in one eye myself. It took me long to compensate for it, especially in battle."

"I would never have known," she said, drawing her hand away.

"I have been careful to make sure no one would. To the rest of the world, I am hale and whole."

"Tell me, my lord – am I very much disfigured?" She had not cared to ask anyone, but she was curious, and she knew her king would not lie to her. He was not the sort to dole out false platitudes.

"No," he said, touching the wound that ran between her eyes. "The scar is deep, but it will fade with time. Ríniel has protected your eyes with cataracts, so that you might not lose them utterly. They are white, and nothing more."

That was something of a relief, actually. She would not like to think people recoiled and she could not see them.

"My lord, I do not know if I am strong enough for this," she admitted. "I say that not as an excuse, but as simple truth. I have lost my sight, but I have also lost K-Kili." Her voice broke when she spoke his name, and the internal damn holding back her tears burst. She could not find it in herself to be ashamed of weeping so openly before her king.

To her shock, he gathered her in his arms. "I know," he said, more gently than she had ever heard him speak. "I cannot tell you the pain of it will ever leave you, for it would be a lie, but you can grow to live with it in time. It need not destroy you."

She didn't know how it could not, but he had survived it for so many years. She was reminded forcibly of the last time she had cried in his arms – she had been very small, and had had yet another nightmare about the death of her parents. He had told her of the loss of his own father, and comforted her with the knowledge that she would one day see them again.

She would never see Kili. There was a reason the Eldar so rarely formed any sort of relationship with other races – their lives were too brief, and when they died, their parting would be final. Tauriel understood that all too bitterly now.

"How did you bear it, my lord? How did you not Fade?"

"I had Legolas," he said, stroking her hair as Ríniel had done. "I had a people who needed me. I know you have no child, Tauriel, but we need you, and I believe the Dwarves do as well."

"How can they?" she asked, wiping her nose on her sleeve like a child.

"The grudge between our peoples is far older even than I," he said. "You are living proof that it is not insurmountable. Do you know Dáin threatened me, before I brought you back here?"

"_What?_" Oh, how she wished she could read his face. She knew he would not lie to her, but she still found it difficult to believe.

"Oh yes." There was something akin to amusement in Thranduil's voice. "He said that if I let you die, he would cleave my head from my shoulders and mount it above his throne."

For the first time since the battle, Tauriel found herself laughing._ That_ she could easily believe the dwarf-king would say.

"I will try, my lord," she said. "But you know I cannot promise I will not Fade, no matter what my effort." That was not how Fading worked – it could be willed, but it could not necessarily be stopped. Fortunately she had not yet had the opportunity to begin.

Thought of eternity spent in this darkness still terrified her. She did not know how long it would take the despair of it to leave her, or if it ever would, but for the first time, she felt a real reason to try.

"Come to the dining-hall tonight," Thranduil said. "There are still many who would see your recovery for themselves."

The thought almost made Tauriel quail, but she would do it, and hope she did not run into too many things (or people). "Very well, my lord," she sighed.

"I will see you back to your room – practice with your stick as we go. And Tauriel – what do I smell like?"

She smiled. "Lightning, my lord," she said. "Lightning, and a summer storm."

* * *

The stick helped to a point, but Tauriel found she moved more easily if she also ran her left hand along the wall. There were many places where that was impossible, as there were no walls, and then she hardly dared move, stick or no stick.

She knew her way to the dining-hall well enough, or thought she did; she must have missed a corridor, for she found herself in the kitchen, flustered and embarrassed and frustrated. One of the cooks helped her back to the main hallway, pointing her in the right direction.

"Shall I take you there?" he asked, but Tauriel shook her head. She was determined to learn things on her own, as much as was possible. There was more than enough that she needed help with already.

Thought of dinner really was almost more than she could endure. Ríniel had taught her to arrange her plate like a clock, with each food occupying a certain place, so that she would know where everything was. It was a useful idea, but never had she tried it in front of others. She greatly feared spilling or dropping something, or knocking over someone's goblet.

When she drew near enough to hear the echo of hundreds of voices, her nerve almost failed her. Indeed she might have turned back, had someone not taken her arm. She jumped, and tried to shy away, but the hand held firm.

"Do not be frightened, Tauriel." She knew that voice – Iólel, another of the healers. "No one will allow any harm to come to you."

"I know," Tauriel said. "It is only…I do not wish to make a fool of myself, and it would be so easy to do, now that I cannot see what I am doing."

"You will never look foolish," Iólel said firmly. "You are no different than any other soldier who has suffered an injury grievous enough to permanently affect you. Did anyone laugh when Manwathiel had to adapt to the loss of her left leg?"

"No," Tauriel said. But then, Manwathiel also never did properly adapt – she had taken ship a century past, unable to face life in the Woodland Realm if not as a guard. No one had blamed her. Tauriel at least had a new purpose.

"No," Iólel reiterated. "No one will think any less of you, even if you spill your wine on the King."

For the second time that day, Tauriel laughed. Iólel gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

"Things are not so terrible. The guards have saved your place at table all this time. They insisted that you would return eventually."

Tauriel was genuinely touched. How could anyone have such faith in her? She certainly did not, even now. It was too soon to know if her efforts would do any good.

Even with all Iólel's words of encouragement, Tauriel was shivering by the time they reached the entrance to the hall, but she gamely put one foot in front of the other. She'd come too far to turn back now, even if Iólel would have let her.

The volume of the din muted a little when they stepped through the doorway, but mercifully it did not stop entirely. If it had, Tauriel might have turned and fled, Iólel or no Iólel.

"Tauriel!" Falchon called. He was not far away, from the sound of his voice, and she suspected he deliberately made his tread heavier, so that she might hear him approach. "Tauriel, I am sorry for this morning."

"Do not worry over it," she said. "I know you meant well. I am simply not ready to face all that I have lost."

"I should have known that," he said, taking her arm when Iólel released it.

"How could you have?" she asked. "It is not as though such an injury is common among our people."

She felt him wince. "Yes, well, the King let me know in no uncertain terms that I was not to do something so foolish again."

Tauriel was not surprised. Not when he had such great plans for her. "Just ask next time. I will try things when I am ready."

"Do not let us bully you into anything," he said, leading her carefully to her seat. She nearly stumbled swinging her foot over the bench, but at least she did not fall.

"Trust me," she said, "I will not. Find somewhere for this, will you?" she asked, holding out her stick. He took it from her, and she heard the click as he set it on the floor.

It was far too strange, being seated in this hall but unable to see it. She called up her memories of it in her mind's eye – people usually sat in the same place every day, so she could mostly guess where everyone was. Beinion would be across from her, with Amaniel to his left and Thalion to his right. On the table between them was what smelled like a platter of roast pheasant.

"Ríniel told me how you arrange your plate," Falchon said, taking his seat beside her. "What do you want on it?"

She had to ask what was available, which earned her a score of competing suggestions. In the end she found herself trying a little of everything in reach, and was surprised to find her appetite equal to the task. She also had far too much Dorwinion, which meant she had to be half-carried back to her room – though it was hardly the first time_ that_ had happened. She was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

* * *

_She dreamed of Kili, of Lake-Town before it burned. In her dream, Kili was strong and healthy, ready to tackle mountain and dragon head-on, despite her pleas. She was determined to stay with him, whatever he chose, but the orcs were coming_ – Bolg _was coming – and she would shut Kili in that mountain if she had to, once the dragon was dead. Bolg would not get him this time._

_"You are_ mine, _Kili," she insisted, over all his protests. His eyes, so achingly alive, were filled with youthful exasperation at her insistence, but on this she would not be swayed._

_"You cannot hold me forever, Amrâlimê," he said, and she watched in horror as the grey pallor of death leeched the color from his face, as the light left his bright eyes._

_She grabbed him, trying to shake him free of Mandos' grasp, but the Valar's will could not be gainsaid –_

Tauriel woke with a start, and found her pillow damp with tears. Her heart thundered like a drum in her chest, and when she sat, the lingering effects of the wine made her head spin.

She was still dressed in the clothes she had worn to dinner, minus her boots, and she struggled into them once she found them. Sleep was lost to her for now, and she could not stay here. If she did not move, she might well go mad.

Though the Eldar needed sleep far less than other races, the palace was still often quiet at night. It was rare to find anyone up and about at this hour, and Thranduil certainly would not have expected to see Tauriel roaming the halls.

That she had been weeping was evident even from a distance, and he did not wonder why. Her loss was still far too fresh. While she would not want her grief intruded upon, she was about to walk right off the edge of the bridge below.

"Tauriel," he called, "stop."

Stop she did, with a slight twitch, and he descended the stairs to meet her. He needed to put railings along the highest walkways, or she might well fall and break her neck.

She turned her head, following the sound of his deliberately loud approach, her white eyes wide. He had spoken truth when he said they were not disfigurement, but they were unsettling even to him. "I could not sleep, my lord," she said, wholly unnecessarily. "I had thought – well, I do not know what I had thought. Only that I could not remain where I was."

"I know," he said, taking her arm. "I know that feeling very well, but you should not wander on your own so late until you have more practice with your stick. There are far too many heights you could fall from."

"Today has made me all too aware of that," she said grimly. "I had thought I knew these halls so well, but now that I cannot see them, I find I have little idea where anything is at all."

The frustration in her voice was palpable, and Thranduil could not fault her for it. This would be no easy adjustment for her, but he had given what proved to be unnecessary orders for her to be helped whenever she should need it. It had been gratifying to see that all at dinner had been happy to aid her – whether she wanted them to or not. Her stubborn pride might well be as much a handicap as a blessing, so it was just as well that everyone seemed ready to ignore it.

"You will learn it again," he said, leading her back to the stairs. Her gait, he thought, was as unsteady from the wine as it was from the hesitance over where to put her feet. "We have reached the stairs. Tap each with your stick before you step."

"Where are we going, my lord?"

"Anywhere. As you cannot sleep, you may as well start learning your way again." He had no pressing business to attend to, and there was no better way to assure she would not Fade than to keep her near.

* * *

See, Tauriel, all is not lost.


	3. Recovery

In which Tauriel adjusts to her new life in the Woodland Realm, and it adjusts to her.

* * *

Days became weeks, and the sight of Tauriel with her stick swiftly grew familiar to all who dwelt within Thranduil's halls. Each day she set out to explore a little further, determined to re-learn all the details of her home.

It was not an easy process. Even with the stick, she lost count of how many things she collided with, and how many stairs she tripped over. Anyone she passed would automatically correct her course if she looked likely to run into (or off of) something, but she still managed to make a fine mess of things half the time.

At first, Thranduil had been willing to more or less leave her to her own devices, but after she stepped right off the edge of a parapet and fell thirty feet into a pool of water, he assigned her a daily companion. It very plainly irked her, but she conceded the necessity.

"These are early days yet, Tauriel," he said. "No one learns anything worth learning in so short a span of time. I am going to find you a teacher."

Find one he did – a very tough, very elderly woman from Lake-Town, who he suspected had survived Smaug's attack through sheer stubbornness. According to the rather amused messenger, she hadn't been at all pleased at being summoned to the Woodland Realm, until the reason was explained.

"She has quite a bit of…character," the messenger warned. "But she was born without sight, and her method of coping with it is not one I have ever heard of."

As it turned out, neither had Thranduil, though it made sense once it was explained to him. When she arrived, she had no stick of any kind, to lean on or to feel her way with. She was eighty-five years old, and looked it – a tiny, stooped, gnarled woman with a thick braid of snow-white hair wound around her head like a crown. She trod the high walkways quite as easily as if she saw them, making a strange clicking noise with her tongue all the while.

"What are you doing?" he asked, too curious to be anything but blunt.

"Seeing with sound," she said. "Show me to your girl – I will teach her, though I cannot say how long it will take her to learn. I've done it all my life."

"Who taught you?"

"Me," she said flatly. "I grew weary of always falling into the water as a child. Your halls are not an ideal place for her to learn this – too many echoes. If you are both amenable, in time I would like to take her to Dale."

"In time," he said. "Not yet. She is still unused to being without sight in a place that is familiar to her – I would not send her to a strange area so soon."

"Wise," the woman said laconically. "I will take her through your halls and walkways that are more enclosed, for now."

"Have patience with her," he warned. "Her sight was lost with great pain and violence, and she is still very frustrated."

"I know. We've all heard the story. The Dwarves sing songs of her."

Somehow, Thranduil was not surprised. "I will take her to Erebor, whenever Dain decides to actually have a public coronation," he said, "If she is prepared to go." It was either a brilliant idea, or an utterly terrible one, and only time would tell. He knew she still mourned Kili deeply, and visiting his grave might be cathartic or horrible. It was not a subject he had pressed her on – nor would he, yet.

"If he ever does," the woman snorted. "Those Dwarves work all the hours of the day and then some. I don't think they've halted once since the battle ended. It's not natural, if you ask me."

Thranduil didn't laugh, but it took a great deal of effort.

* * *

And so the woman – Astrid was her name – joined Tauriel on her daily walks, teaching her the variety of clicking sounds that would let her know what was in front of and beside her. As she had warned Thranduil, it was not an easy thing for Tauriel to master; Tauriel had, after all, lived over six hundred years in a world of light. Her clicking was often punctuated with swearing each time she stumbled into something – for Astrid took away her stick, deriding it as a limitation. Thranduil had not been pleased by that, but Astrid insisted she knew what she was doing, so he settled for having a guard follow the pair, just in case.

Astrid also told him there was a way Tauriel could learn to read with her fingers. A traveling merchant had shown it to her, when she was a child; it involved pressing raised lettering into parchment. The few books she had had with such writing had all burned with Lake-Town, and Astrid had not the skill to write it herself, but there would be scholars in Gondor who would. If Tauriel could learn to write it as well as read it, she could take notes that no one _else_ could read.

He had to admit, Astrid had impressed him, and that was not an easy thing to do. Oh, she was harsh and blunt and quite ignorant of the world outside of her own realm, but she had taught herself how to live without the limitations of blindness. Even on the highest walkways she moved with surprisingly swift confidence for a woman of her age – unless she had Tauriel with her. Then they went as slowly as Tauriel required, with their guard close behind. Even with as much scorn as Thranduil had so long had for most of the Edain, he had to admit that they were far more adaptable than the Eldar. But then, with their short lifespan, they would have to be.

One day, during a particularly dull council meeting, the pair of them passed by the door, clicking away until Tauriel stumbled over an uneven patch in the floor. She let out a very loud, very vulgar, very _Edain_ curse, halting in her tracks and throwing up her hands.

"This is why I need the stick," she said. "If I fall on my face one more time, I will throw myself in the river and happily forget my entire life."

"And undo all I have taught you?" Astrid snorted. "I think not, missy. Reach the end of this hallway without aid and we'll both go get drunk."

Thranduil kept a straight face – barely – but several of his counselors did not. Their laughter made Tauriel jump, and she glared in the general direction of the doorway.

"I'm happy I could amuse you," she said dryly, and Thranduil was pleased by her sarcasm. If she could muster the energy to be sarcastic, her despair must truly be lifting.

"I did not realize your education was encompassing Edain oaths," he said, unable to keep the mirth from his voice.

"Theirs is a very expressive language," she said blandly.

"I've taught you nothing yet," Astrid said. "Fishermen are some of the most profane people alive. Come, Tauriel. You can sense the variances in the floor if you focus hard enough."

* * *

Tauriel was uncertain what to think of her new life. She still grieved the loss of both her sight and Kili quite terribly, especially at night, but she was learning things she had not thought possible. Astrid was a patient (if acerbic) teacher, and her techniques did work – Tauriel was just slow to mater them.

Dressing herself was no longer quite so difficult. The seamstresses had made her simpler tunics that required little in the way of lacing, and she put everything in its own particular place at night, so that she could find it easily in the morning. Braiding her own hair properly was still beyond her, but there was always someone willing to do it for her.

Astrid, being both Edain and elderly, required a great deal of sleep, but Tauriel could practice her clicking on her own. She knew that the King always had someone follow her, which had to be quite dull for whoever was assigned the task, but it meant she did not walk off another ledge again.

As he had instructed, she set about memorizing the scent of all she came into contact with. When she was in a crowd, the skill was utterly useless, but she soon learned to identify who her guard was on any given day.

Mercifully, it seemed everyone had learned to weight their tread when they were around her, so that she would know if their approach before they were near enough for her to smell. It meant she was no longer frightened half out of her wits to discover she had unexpected company.

Weeks passed this way, and then months, and on the first day of spring, a messenger arrived from Erebor: King Dain, _finally_, had announced his coronation. And he requested Tauriel's presence.

Tauriel had no idea what she was going to do. She had not gone outside since that first disastrous attempt, and now someone – many someones, by the sound of it – wanted her to not only leave the safety and comparative familiarity of her home, but to travel to the very place she had lost both her sight and her love.

"You do not have to go," the King told her. "I am certain Dain would understand – and if he does not, I will make him. I know he would not wish you to feel forced to do something that would cause you pain."

Tauriel swallowed. The very thought _did_ hurt, and horribly, but she could not hide away in these halls forever, no matter how tempting a prospect that might be. She had a task to perform, and she would never be given a better opportunity to begin. "I will go," she said. "But I can make no promise I will not make a fool of myself."

"I do not think you could ever do that," he said, and she did not think she imagined the relief in his voice.

"Oh, I would feel very foolish if I were to walk into a wall," she said. "I do not know how well all Astrid has taught me would serve me in a strange place." The thought of riding a horse while blind was also not a pleasant one.

"You will have people enough to ensure you do not," Thranduil said, sounding amused. She was quite certain he was arching an eyebrow. "Ours and theirs, I am certain."

Tauriel sighed. She knew that her story was precisely the sort of thing songs were made of – doomed love, irreparable wounds and all – but it did not seem even fractionally as romantic when you were the one living it. The songs never mentioned blinded survivors falling down a flight of stairs, or putting their clothes on inside-out, as she had done just this morning. This could easily turn into a disaster, but she could not let that possibility stop her.

"May we take Amaniel?" she asked. "I will need someone to stay with me in an unfamiliar room." She was almost of an age with Amaniel, and was closest to her out of all the other ellyth in the Guard. Her pride would not allow her to bring a healer, though part of her would have liked to.

"Of course. And we are bringing your stick, whether Astrid likes it or not."

* * *

As it turned out, Astrid approved.

"You are new at this yet," she said. "I took the stick away to train you so that you would not remain dependent upon it, but you are going to a strange place, and you are going outside. Practice your clicking, but use the stick if you must."

That greatly relieved Tauriel. It was also a relief to know she wouldn't be walking over anything so treacherous and uneven as the forest floor.

The night before they were to leave, Amaniel helped her pack, but they also had the aid of Elwyn, one of the nobles on the Council. Tauriel would, she said, be wearing clothing rather more complicated than she was used to, and Amaniel needed to know what article went with which. As Amaniel's taste in clothing was as simple as Tauriel's, they needed the assistance.

Tauriel ran her fingers over the silk of one dress, and sighed. She had always liked looking at the beautiful things the nobility wore, even if she would not have wanted to wear them herself. "What does this look like?" she asked.

"It is a deep forest green," Elwyn replied, "with gold and silver embroidery on the neck and sleeves." She took Tauriel's hand, guiding her fingertips over the rich threads. "The silk itself is shot with gold, which I believe the Dwarves will appreciate. The sleeves are longer than you are accustomed to, but not so long that you ought to find them cumbersome." She paused. "Amaniel, you must see aloud for Tauriel, when you leave. Describe all that you see, that she might picture it for herself."

"I will, my lady. I think we _all_ will."

Tauriel knew, then and there, that she ought to resign herself to listening to arguments about precisely what shade of blue the sky was.

* * *

Leaving the gate was not nearly so traumatic as her first attempt had been. She was hesitant, but with the King before her, and Amaniel and Astrid to either side, she felt secure.

This time the air was merely cool, not icy, and the sun was warm when it touched her face. The thousand and on scents of spring assailed her all at once, and it was almost enough to make her falter in her steps.

"The sunlight is bright and golden," Amaniel murmured to her, "and the sky is as blue as it only ever is in spring. The new leaves are just beginning to grow – pale green they are, edged with gold in the sun."

Tauriel had had no idea Amaniel could be so poetical.

"The star-flowers are opening among the roots, white as snow, though I think it will be some time yet before they form a true carpet. Someone has been clearing the path, for there are new sticks and boughs all along it.

"I can smell it," Tauriel said, and she could: freshly turned earth, and not-so-freshly-cut wood.

"Your horse is just here," Amaniel said, and hesitated, clearly as uncertain as Tauriel herself how she was to mount the beast.

A rather amused order of, "Try not to kick him in the head" was all she received, before the King grabbed her by the waist, hoisting her into the air as though she weighed no more than a child. She could not quite bite back a startled yelp as he swung her upward, though at least she did not actually kick the horse, in the head or anywhere else. Her fingers tangled in his mane, desperate for something to hold onto, and she shot a glare in what she hoped was the King's general direction.

"I appreciate the assistance, my lord, but if I am not to make an utter fool of myself in front of all of Erebor, I need a little more warning."

A choked laugh came from her right – Amaniel, most likely. Tauriel tried to glare at her as well.

"Duly noted," Thranduil said, his amusement even more evident.

This, she knew, was going to be a long journey.

* * *

Long it was, though not as arduous as she had feared. Faithful Amaniel described their surroundings in great detail, and she was not the only one. There were indeed debates about the hue of the sky (and everything else), and when they paused to rest the horses, many of the retinue would bring her things to touch: leaves, flowers, stones. If it had a distinctive texture, Tauriel was handed it.

She did notice that no mention was made of the ruin of Lake-Town. She knew when they passed it; even now, the scent of wet, charred wood remained strong, but if no one wanted to speak of it, neither would she. Instinct turned her face to it, despite the fact that she could not see it, and she felt Amaniel's strong hand touch her shoulder.

_Kili was saved here_, she reminded herself. He did not spend his last hours in agony. Had she not been here, he would have died, along with his brother, their companions, and both of Bard's daughters. She had done _some_ good, at least.

They arrived at Dale at what she perceived to be sunset, and Tauriel swallowed hard. Astrid would return to her own family, now that she had taught Tauriel all that she could. She had spoken of them so often that Tauriel felt she knew them, and hoped secretly that they might be introduced. The Elves would be quartered in Dale for the duration of their visit – the better to avoid any diplomatic incidents, as Thranduil put it.

The sounds had beset her at a distance, and as they approached, the smells soon did as well. It seemed the entire city was preparing for a feast, if the scent of roasting meat was any indication. Astrid's training would be of no use at all to her here, amid so much noise; if it was as crowded as it sounded, she risked hitting someone with her stick, too. She realized with some annoyance that she was likely going to have to be led around like a child.

"The city is much improved," the King said. "The damage done by the dragon, and in the battle, has all been repaired, and much of it appears to be Dwarf-work. Bright banners of red and blue and gold hang from the walls, and it would appear the streets have been cleared this day."

"There are so many people," she murmured. "Surely the survivors of Lake-Town alone could not make so much noise."

"Many tradesmen have come to live in Dale," he said. "Most are descended from the survivors of the dragon who chose to leave rather than settle in Esgaroth. They were raised on tales of the city as it once was, and by all appearances, they have set out to re-create it."

"I wish I could see it," she sighed, unable to help the lament.

"I wish you could as well. Stay near me when we dismount, Tauriel – in such a crowd as this, your stick would only be an inadvertent weapon."

Tauriel didn't quite laugh, but his words brought a smile to her face. Never would she have suspected her King of possessing a sense of humor, but in the last months he seemed to have developed one. The battle had changed him, and somehow it appeared to be for the better. Not that she could ever say so aloud.

She knew the moment they passed through the gate, for a great cheer came up, so suddenly and so loud that it nearly startled her into falling off her horse. Amaniel caught her knee, holding her steady.

_That certainly would have been an entrance worth remembering_, she thought dryly. She managed to stay somewhat dignified for the rest of their journey through the streets of Dale, but she was glad enough to arrive at their destination. Whatever that was.

"Welcome, King Thranduil." That was Bard's voice, directly in front of them. "Lady Tauriel."

She laughed, and it sounded nervous even to her ears. "I am no lady, my lord," she said. "Just Tauriel will do."

She heard the King dismount, and felt him take her hand. "Lean on me," he said quietly. "I will not let you fall."

Fortunately, he was as good as his word. She stumbled a little, but that was understandable.

"I owe you my daughters' lives," Bard said. "To me, you have earned the title."

She genuinely had no idea what to say to that.

"I believe you are embarrassing her," the King said, saving her from floundering. "Where _are_ your children?"

"I told them to stay inside," Bard said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Otherwise they might have mobbed you, all propriety forgotten."

"Will my eyes frighten them?" Thranduil had said they were not disfiguring, but he was not an Edain child.

"No," Bard assured her. "After the battle, they saw a great deal of death and injury I wish I could have spared them, and your eyes do not look like any manner of wound."

"As long as you are certain," she said, hoping he was not merely being diplomatic to spare her feelings.

"I would not have said so if I thought otherwise. Come this way – the lads will take your horses."

_He tries to sound like a king_, she thought, _but he is still a simple bargeman at heart, and it shows._ She hoped he remained that way. An excess of excessive royalty had not helped matters, in the years before the dragon came. From what little Tauriel had heard of Dain, he sounded far more practical than Thrór, and Bard was a pragmatist used to making do with little. Such a person was the best sort of have in charge even in times of plenty.

The building they entered was warm, and smelled of the same dried herbs that had hung in Bard's kitchen in Esgaroth. She could hear a fire crackling in a grate across the room – a large room, from the feel of it. Now that they were away from the din outside, she clicked her tongue a few times, experimentally.

"Old Astrid trained you in her ways, did she?" Bad asked, shutting the door.

"Eventually. I would not trust my skill with them in a strange place yet. Perhaps in smaller rooms. I also have a stick, so that I will not knock over anything but myself if I am not careful."

"I hope she was not too harsh," Bard said, moving around them. "If you will come with me, my lord, I have wine and refreshments in the dining-room. I have prepared quarters for you and your retinue in the guesthouse, but the girls ordered me to ask if Lady Tauriel would like to stay with us."

She didn't bother correcting his misuse of her title, and not only because she was busy clicking. Tauriel knew a losing battle when she saw one. So to speak. "If my lord allows it," she said, following his lead across the room. "I have a friend with me, to aid me in an unfamiliar place – I would like her to stay with me, wherever I go."

"If you are certain, Tauriel," Thranduil said. "Given our number, you might well find lodging here more peaceful."

She could definitely use the rest. She might even sleep tonight. Ever since the battle, she had slept far more than was customary for the Eldar, though still much less than the Edain. "I would love to," she said. Amaniel would not mind; she had been curious about this family ever since the battle.

"Before we go any further, Lord Bard, I must ask your indulgence in one thing. Tauriel, sniff him."

Her face heated, and it was all she could do not to stamp on her King's foot. "It is how I identify people," she said apologetically. For once she was glad of her blindness, for she would not want to see the expression on Bard's face.

"Of course, my lady," he said sounding only a little strained.

Permission thus granted, she sniffed as discretely as she could. He smelled of smoke and leather, easily identifiable. "Thank you, my lord. I know it must seem strange, but it is the only way I have to know who is near me."

"It is no trouble. We all must use what abilities we have."

Well, that was a relief. She could only hope Thranduil would not so bluntly order her to smell King Dain. Eru only knew how _that_ would be received, no matter how much esteem the Dwarves held her in.

A trio of footsteps sounded on what had to be a staircase, and Tilda's voice came floating through a doorway: "Can we come down now, Da?"

"So long as you do not crowd our guests."

"Guests? Oh." They must have spotted the King, which would account for Tilda's sudden hesitance. Thranduil could be imposing to his own people, whether he was trying to or not; Tauriel could only imagine what he must look like to Bard's children – or to Bard, for that matter.

"I will not keep you from Tauriel," he said. "I must speak to your father. As he says, do not crowd her. She has her own ways of doing things. What is your name, child?"

"Sigrid," Sigrid said, and her voice was mostly steady.

"Sigrid. I am trusting you to describe the rooms for her. We have all taken to seeing our surroundings aloud, that she might form a picture in her mind." At least he did not tell them to let her sniff them all. "Tauriel, I will send Amaniel to you later. I suspect we will need to dress for dinner."

"As you wish, my lord."

He released her arm, leaving her feeling temporarily bereft.

"Shall I describe the room to you, my lady?" Sigrid asked, breathing an audible sigh of relief when her father's footsteps left the room, and presumably took Thranduil with him.

"Just Tauriel," Tauriel said firmly. "I may not be able to disabuse your father of the title, but I would not have you thinking of me as anything above you. I may be a guard no longer in practice, but I remain one in spirit."

"Tauriel, then," Sigrid said. "Should I tell you of your surroundings?"

"I would love to hear it."

"This room is larger than the entirety of our old house," Sigrid said. "King Dain sent some workers to smooth the walls, so that they are nearly like glass. They are all stone, as is the floor, and the fireplace is as tall as Tilda.

"Ben the Lame took to carpentry when he lost his leg in the battle, and he made us the most beautiful table. The legs are carved with vines and roses, and it too is smoother than anything we have ever seen. The house has a dining-room, but mostly we eat in here. Da says this house is too big for such a small family as ours, and I think he is right."

"It's spooky at night," Tilda said. "I had my own room, but I had so many nightmares about the dragon that I moved in with Sigrid."

"Do Elves have nightmares?" Bain asked, then yelped when one of his sisters kicked him.

"Ignore him, Tauriel," Sigrid said, in a tone that promised later retribution for her brother. "He does not know how to think before he speaks."

"It is all right," Tauriel said. She could not fault the boy his question, however much it pained her; he had been with his father when Bard killed the dragon, and had likely been terrified half out of his mind. "Yes, we do, but as the Eldar sleep far less than the race of Men, I think I have not had as many as you."

"Do they ever go away?" he asked, sounding even younger than his brief years.

"Yes," she lied. "In time." And perhaps for the Edain it was not a lie. Bain was very young, even by their reckoning, and the children of all races were in some ways more resilient than adults. "But such dark things should not be spoken of on what smells and feels like such a lovely day. Show me your house aloud."

* * *

Bard did not want to admit how shaken he had been by the sight of Tauriel. He had spoken the truth when he said her white eyes would not frighten the children, though they were a little unsettling, and her scar was as nothing compared to many of the injuries his own had survived. Had he seen her wounds on one of his own people they would have grieved him, but the survivors of Dale were mortal; somehow, seeing an Elf so wounded seemed unnatural. He had met few of them in his life, but to him they had always seemed creatures apart, remote and beautiful as the stars. Seeing their dead after the battle had been bad enough, but Tauriel's affliction was worse to behind.

Doubtless Thranduil knew of his unease, but mercifully said nothing of it. The Elf-King sat when bidden, and accepted a glass of wine.

"I am sure my accommodations must seem very humble to you," Bad said, taking the seat opposite, "though to me they are grander than anything I have ever known. We have been so busy rebuilding that we have had little time nor opportunity to import luxuries."

"That is understandable," Thranduil said. "What the dragon did not destroy of your city, the battle nearly did. Housing your people through the winter would be difficult enough." Thranduil seemed sincere, thought he was a difficult person to read. Bard had thought the other Elves he had met were inscrutable, but they had nothing on their pale-haired King, whose eyes were nearly as unsettling as Tauriel's.

"We would all have starved if not for you, my lord," Bard said. "I still do not know how we can ever repay you."

"It is a poor ally who leaves his neighbor to starve," Thranduil said dismissively. "We suffered no hardship for it, and your people have always kept mine well into their cups."

Did…did Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, just make a _joke_? His expression remained impassive as ever, so Bard dared not laugh, but it was a near thing. "It must be a potent wine indeed that we bring you," he said instead. "I am sorry I have nothing finer to offer you."

"This is finer than much I have imbibed in my lifetime," Thranduil said, and for the first time, Bard wondered how old he really was. "Are you ever to hold a coronation of your own?"

Bard shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "In truth, my lord, I am still having difficulty accepting that I am any manner of lord myself," he admitted. "I have always known I am Girion's last heir, but my family have been bargemen and fishermen for five generations. Always I worked for the good of my people, but as one of them, not lord of them."

"Kingship is not an easy thing to assume," Thranduil said, and he sounded as though he spoke from experience. "But your people seem to love you, and you have your children."

"I do not think I could have done this without them. And were it not for Lady Tauriel, my daughters would have burned."

"She saved many that day," Thranduil said enigmatically. "And paid a heavy price for it. She does well within my halls, but in such a foreign place she may need aid she will be too proud to ask for. If you truly wish to repay me, let at least one of your children remain near her when I cannot. If she can tell herself she is humoring them, she will not feel so badly about accepting their assistance."

It was a relief to know that Thranduil took such care with her. Bard had not heard the details, but he knew there had been strife between them during the battle. It would seem that matter had been laid to rest and then some. "Among men, there is a saying that people with hair of her color are uncommonly stubborn," he said.

"I could tell you tales of red-haired Elves and their stubbornness, but I will spare you," Thranduil said. Bard was certain there _was_ a story there, but he would not press. "Tauriel's pride has been as much a hindrance as a help to her. I am entrusting her to your children's care, until this business is over."

"They will look after her, my lord. Of that you have my word."

* * *

The echolocation techniques Astrid uses to train Tauriel are a real skill used by some blind people. One of the most famous practitioners was Ben Underwood, a boy who lost his eyes to cancer at two and taught himself to echolocate at five.


	4. Dale

In which Tauriel experiences her first true interactions with outsiders, and Thranduil has to fight the instinct to be utterly overprotective.

* * *

Tauriel did not need to see Amaniel to guess how bemused she was by Bard's children.

Their elevation to nobility had clearly not affected them. They were the same hardy, sturdy brood she remembered, with Tilda and Bain trying to talk over one another, and Sigrid scolding them both. That was a girl who had become a mother in spirit far too young in life, but she did not seem to mind. However, she did not appear anxious to be a mother in truth – or even a wife.

"Father has had three offers for my and already," she grumbled. "_Three_, and one from as far away as Gondor. I have only just turned sixteen!"

"At what age do Edain customarily marry?" Amaniel asked.

"Nineteen or twenty, at least in these parts. It only ever happens younger if a girl gets in the family way before marriage. I do not know yet if I even _wish_ to marry, let alone when."

Now Amaniel sounded incredibly confused. "Why would you not?"

"It is dangerous for women," Sigrid said. "With marriage come children."

"Our mother died not long after Tilda was born," Bain explained."And her mother died birthing her. Before the battle, our old men outnumbered our old women again by half."

That was disturbing. Birth was no easy thing for the Elves, but it was rarely fatal. "Perhaps some of your healers could train with ours," Tauriel said. "There must be something to be done about that."

Could she and Kili have had children? Elves could breed with Edain – Lord Elrond was proof of that – but so far as she knew, Elves and Dwarves had never intermarried.

But now was not the time to speculate on that. "If you wish a good excuse to put your would-be suitors off, you should train a while with our healers, once your father has settled to his new position. No one would be offended by your refusal then." They wouldn't dare.

"Do you really think I could?" Sigrid asked, her voice laced with excitement.

"I would have to ask the King, but I cannot imagine him refusing." It was, as he himself would say, diplomacy, and was that not why he had brought her here?

"Tauriel, the sun is nearly set. If you are to dress for dinner, we ought to start now," Amaniel said.

"I hope you remember how all of it works," Tauriel laughed.

"We can help," Tilda offered. "Bain, go be a boy somewhere else."

Tauriel could easily picture the boy rolling his eyes, but the sound of his footsteps went out through the door. "Well," she said, "between us, perhaps we might figure this out."

* * *

Dain did not come to that evening's feast, but that was only to be expected; no doubt his advisors were driving him mad with last-minute preparations. Many other Dwarves were in attendance, however, including a number of Thorin Oakenshield's original company.

Though Tauriel had known she would have a prominent part to play, Thranduil could see how nervous she was. He doubted any of the assorted mortals would, at least.

Between them, Amaniel, Sigrid, and Tilda appeared to have worked out the intricacies of her clothing. This dress was russet silk, embroidered in brown and gold, cut simply enough that she would not have difficulty moving in it. The coloring matched the deep, polished brown of her stick, though he did not intend to allow her much use of it. It was easier for everyone if he guided her himself, and his presence beside her would serve as anchor.

"They have erected a great pavilion," he told her, as he led her toward it. "There are Dwarvish braziers at each side to heat it, and long tables face the center. Either they mounted a great hunt, or they have been hoarding food for months, because they could not otherwise have prepared such a feast."

"I smell venison," she said. "And pheasant with garlic."

"It would seem the Dwarves had brought barrels of ale as well," he said dryly, eying the massive casks. "This feast could prove more interesting than I anticipated."

He felt Tauriel shake with silent laughter. "You will have to describe it for me, my lord," she said with bland innocence. "No doubt I will find it educational."

"I will tell you when to duck, should the ale become airborne," he promised solemnly.

Tauriel _did_ laugh then, some of the tension leaving her. A few heads turned, including some of the Dwarves', and Thranduil hoped she was ready to speak to them, for it did not look as though they were willing to let her have a choice in the matter. For their sake, he hoped they were not intent on saying something that would upset Tauriel unduly, advertently or otherwise. He could not get away with rudeness at Dain's coronation, but this was not it, so he could be as rude as he liked, so far as he was concerned.

The eldest Dwarf – whose name, Thranduil had eventually learned, was Balin – seemed to be the leader. His brother – large for a Dwarf, and perpetually surly-looking – followed, as well as a young Dwarf who looked to be a scribe.

"King Thranduil," Balin said, with a slight bow, "we were wondering if we might have a word with Miss Tauriel."

"That would be up to her," Thranduil replied.

"Of course," she said, turning her blind eyes to the Dwarves.

"Do not upset her." It was a warning, but it sounded more like a threat. "Tauriel, Sigrid is near. Should you grow weary, she can take you to rest."

"Yes, my lord." She sounded a trifle irritated, likely with him. No doubt she saw his order to the Dwarves as an offense to her pride, but she could swallow it. He would not have them causing her pain.

Balin eyed his brother. "Dwalin, you have the tact of an oyster," he said. "Go speak to Bard."

Dwalin grumbled, but notably, he made no protest. Thranduil fought a smile, and barely won.

"Come, Master Dwalin," he said. "I must speak with Bard myself."

The Dwarf eyed him with open suspicion, but followed. "Do they pain her?" he asked, when they were halfway across the pavilion.

"What?" Thranduil asked, honestly surprised that Dwalin would speak to him.

"Her eyes. Do they pain her?" He sounded genuinely concerned. The Dwarves must truly hold Tauriel in as high esteem as had been reported.

"No. The healers took her ability to feel her eyes at all." He paused. "Did you truly think I would allow her to spend so much time in pain?"

The Dwarf's answer was plain enough on his face, though to his credit, he kept it unsaid, opting instead for, "I know nothing of the ways of Elves."

"I can assure you, it is not our way to allow our own to suffer, if it is within our power to prevent it. Why does your brother wish to speak with her?"

Dwalin shifted, his unease palpable. "Thorin's sister – Fili and Kili's mother – has moved to the mountain. She wants to see Tauriel, if Tauriel will allow it."

Thranduil halted, and bent the full force of his glare down at the Dwarf. "She will," he said. "_I_ may not."

Dwalin bristled, though he also paled a little at the sheer vehemence in Thranduil's tone. "Why not?" he demanded.

Thranduil did not actually grab him, but he seemed to haul the Dwarf to the edge of the pavilion by will alone. "Because it will hurt her," he said, his voice deceptively calm. "Tauriel would see Kili's other even if she knew it would kill her. For a time I feared she would die of her grief, and seeing that dwarrowdam would tear that wound open anew."

A kind of grudging respect entered Dwalin's flinty eyes. "I am not the only one who has thought all this time that you only meant to use her as some kind of bargaining tool," he said, more grudgingly still. "For once, I am glad to be wrong. Though if you tell anyone I said that, I'll call you a liar and worse."

Thranduil chose not to feel insulted, and felt rather smug that he could do so. "Tauriel is many things, but she is no one's tool. And while I would not normally deny a grieving mother solace, I will not have her destroying herself to give it."

"I may not know the lass well," Dwalin said, "but I think forbidding it would only make things worse for her. With that hair, she'll dig her heels in deeper than bedrock if you do."

Thranduil fought a sigh. "A trait that would transcend race, it appears. Very well." His gaze hardened. "But if this wounds her too deeply, I will hold every last one of you accountable."

"You'd have to get in line," Dwalin rumbled. "Dain said much the same, along with a great deal of cursing."

Thranduil arched an eyebrow, his estimation of the Dwarf-king rising a fraction. "So long as we are all in accord." He glanced across the pavilion. Tauriel seemed grave, but she was not about to break. Sigrid hovered nearby, no doubt as close as she dared, her concern evident even at a distance. Now there was an Edain with actual sense.

* * *

Tauriel did not know what to think – or what to do. She could hardly deny the Lady Dís whatever comfort she might offer, but her heart quailed at the very idea.

"Dís would understand if you cannot, lass," Balin assured her. "She knows what you have endured."

"No," Tauriel said slowly, "I owe it to her. Mine was the last face Kili saw." _And his was the last face_ I _saw_, she thought, but she would not say _that_ aloud.

"You don't _owe_ anyone anything," the scribe – Ori – said. "We owe you, in ways we can never repay."

"She is his mother," Tauriel said. "I have something that was meant to be given to her." Parting with Kili's runestone would hurt, but it had come from his mother, and to her it should return. Tauriel had lost her love; Dís had lost both sons and her brother.

"Only if you are sure," Balin said. "If you wake tomorrow and feel differently, you have only to say so."

She knew she would not change her mind, but it warmed her to know she could, with no ill-will.

The King cornered her before she retired, which was nearly at dawn. "I know what they have asked of you," he said. "You know you need not acquiesce."

"I know, my lord," she said. "While I do not want to, I believe I need to, for my sake as well as hers." She did not know if he would understand that, because she was unsure if she did herself, but her conviction was firm. "I will not Fade," she added, sensing that it was that which he needed to hear. "That danger has passed, no matter how much this will hurt."

She felt his fingers skim her hair, very briefly. "So long as you are certain," he said, echoing Balin.

"I am, my lord. I swear it."

* * *

Sigrid and Amaniel helped her out of all her finery, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The gown was not restrictive or cumbersome, but there was an inexplicable weight to it that she was glad to shed. She crawled into bed in her simple nightclothes, and was asleep almost immediately.

_Again she dreamt of Kili, but his was no nightmare. For the first time, there was neither battle nor death; instead, she found herself in what was unmistakably a Dwarven hall, though she had never seen one in life. The walls were granite, smooth as glass, hung with torches that bathed the room in a warm dance of red and orange. It smelled of ale and smoke and roasted meat, and it was so crowded that she could make out no single voice among the din._

_"You're late," Kili said, appearing at her side as if by magic. His eyes twinkled up at her as he grinned._

_"I did not know I was invited."_

_"You cannot stay," he said, taking her hand, "but I wanted you to see."_

_To see. Only in her dreams could she see now, but this was exceptionally vivid. "To see what?"_

_Rather than reply, he led her through the crowd. A few of the Dwarves gave her startled glances, but most seemed unaware of her presence._

_To her surprise, he brought her to a table that seated not only his brother, but Thorin Oakenshield as well. Fili had seemed a genial sort even in the poor circumstances in which they met, but Tauriel was shocked at the changes in Oakenshield himself. From what little she had seen of him, he had seemed a surly, taciturn person, quick to wrath and slow to forgive. There was nothing of that now; his expression was open, his posture relaxed – though he did arch an eyebrow when he saw her, and shook his head._

_"You should not bring her here, Kili," he said. "Not when she cannot stay. I know you mean well, but it is a cruelty to her."_

_"I don't want her last sight of me to be my corpse," Kili protested. He looked up at her, eyes wide and anxious. "Tauriel, I swear I did not call you here to cause you pain," he said. "I only wanted you to know that I am well here, with all my family who have gone before me."_

_"Where is 'here'?" she found herself asking, though she was so busy drinking in the sight of him that she was hardly aware of what left her mouth. She wanted to burn this image into her memory forever – this moment, dream though it was._

_"The Halls of Aulë," Fili said, raising a tankard the size of his head in a toast._

_"Where outsiders are not meant to come," Thorin said pointedly. "I mean no offense to you," he added to Tauriel, "but there are some things we must not do, even here. That Kili's will could bring you here at all is a miracle, if no good one." He glowered at his youngest nephew. "Do not do it again, or who knows what Mahal will do."_

_"Yes, Uncle," Kili said sheepishly. "It's a good thing we saw Mum first, or she'd clock me round the ear. Tauriel," he went on, more seriously, "I would not have you grieve me so forever. There is so much yet for you to do and learn, and you should not live it all in pain. There are those who love you, and who will love you. Heal, Amrâlimê." _

_"You know I can promise none of that," she said, stroking the dark hair back from his brow._

_"I think you can, in time," he said, catching her hand. "If you let yourself."_

_He kissed the back of her hand, and she woke._

Without sight, Tauriel could not tell how long she had slept. The room was still warm, but there was no crackle of wood, so the fire must have burnt to coals. Soft, regular breathing issued from the second bed, and the scent of clean cotton and brown sugar suggested its occupant to be Tilda. Sigrid's sharper scent was faded; she likely had not been here in some time.

Tauriel's face was chilled, and when she touched her cheek, she found it damp with tears. Strangely, though, her heart felt lighter. Whether it had been a dream or a vision, she did not know, but it comforted her in a way nothing yet had. She could hold it in her mind's eye forever now.

She knew next to nothing of the Dwarven afterlife. If it were truly as she had just seen, she could be happy for Kili, even as she mourned him. To know – really know – that he was in a place with cheer and without pain, and that he shared it with his ancestors…perhaps she could use that to banish the image of his dead, still face when it arose in her mind.

She crawled from the bed, and groped for her everyday clothes. All was quiet outside; the feast must have ended, and what little she knew of Edain made her think that many of them would likely sleep half the day away.

Now that she was not surrounded by noise on all sides, she practiced her clicking when she reached the hallway. It helped that she knew already there were stairs, but she thought that she would have been able to find them anyway. The echoes were much easier to read in such a relatively confined space, and she moved down the steps with confidence.

Sigrid had told her the room below was the kitchen, and she could easily smell herbs and flour, as well as tea and day-old bread. The girl had described it in such detail that she wondered if she could fix herself toast on her own. Simply using a knife to cut bread could not be _that_ dangerous.

Her fingers ran along the stone counter as she clicked away, exploring. No sooner had they touched the hilt of a knife, however, than a throat cleared behind her, scaring half the life out of her.

"What," the King's voice said, "do you think you are doing, Tauriel?"

"Making toast, my lord," she said, trying to get her wild pulse under control, "when not being startled out of my wits by my King. With all the herbs, I could not smell you."

He said nothing, and she tried not to squirm. Being unable to see his face meant she could not begin to divine what he was thinking – not that that had been any simple task even when she _could_ see him.

"I would rather you not lose a finger before the coronation," he said at last. "If you are truly hungry, give me that."

She stepped aside, allowing him access to the knife, utterly incredulous. Was King Thranduil _really_ going to make her toast in Bard's kitchen? The sound of slicing bread told her he _was_. And she had thought her morning (if morning it was), could get no more surreal.

"How late did the feast run, my lord?" she asked, feeling suddenly awkward – but really, how could she not? Elvenkings did not make toast for anyone, even themselves.

"The last merchant staggered home not half an hour past," he said dryly. "The Dwarves might have kept it going all through the morning, had they not had to return to the mountain to prepare for the coronation. Follow me, Tauriel."

She did, clicking her way along, until her hand brushed the back of a fat armchair. The remains of the fire burned in the grate before it, for she could feel warmth on her face.

Thranduil guided her to sit, though she could have managed without the help. Why was he doing this? It would be pointless to ask, for she knew he would give her no real answer.

The coals sparked as he added more wood to the fire. "Are you still intent on meeting with Lady Dís today?" he asked.

Ah. "Yes, my lord," she said. "I ought to, and I think I would like to. I am feeling…better… today." She could not have properly explained her dream – not in any way that would convey the impact it had had upon her, brief though it was.

Thranduil sighed, so minutely she almost did not hear it. "I had thought as much," he said. "I have spoken with Balin. After the coronation itself there will likely be a week's worth of feasting that Lady Dís can absent herself from. You can speak with her privately then."

"Thank you, my lord," she said, and meant it. "I think this will be of benefit to her and I. I am not so fragile as you fear."

"I do not think you fragile, Tauriel," he said, taking the chair beside her, "but it has been very little time since you suffered grievous loss. Even the strongest of us can be broken by things we might not expect."

"It may yet happen," she admitted, "but I do not think it will happen this day. I am more nervous about the coronation than about what might follow. The crowd last night was bad enough, but the coronation will surely be far worse. With so many competing sounds and smells, I will be hopelessly lost."

"Not with me," he said, and there was reassuring firmness in his tone. "I will not let you stray. I must make ready soon, but Sigrid and Amaniel will be here." She heard him rise, and there came a sound that must have been bread being pried off a toasting-fork. His light footsteps crossed the kitchen, and when he returned, he handed her a thick slice of buttered toast.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, turning her face to him. "For everything. You have taken greater care with me than anyone could ever wish."

"You have earned it," Thranduil said, running his fingers over her hair, as he had the previous night. The gesture surprised her again, though this time she was not so startled by it. There was something inexpressibly comforting in it, and brief though it was, a part of her secretly hoped he might make a habit of it. "Enjoy your toast. I will meet you at noon, to proceed to the mountain."

"Yes, my lord," Tauriel said. She did not hear him leave; only the closing of the outer door told her he had gone.

She did indeed enjoy her toast, musing all the while. Thranduil had thawed markedly since the battle, and she poke truth when she said that no one could have been better cared for than she had been, but in all that time they had rarely personally interacted. Certainly she never would have imagined he would one day fix her breakfast. In some ways her King might have changed, but he was as baffling as ever.

* * *

There was much Thranduil had to attend to before the coronation, but his courtiers had most of it well in hand already. Lack of any pressing duties meant he had ample time to think, which he was not certain he wanted.

When he saw Tauriel groping for the knife, for a horrible moment he had been certain she meant to do herself harm – that the Dwarves' request had broken something within her to drive her to it. Never had he been so relieved by teasing sarcasm.

He needed to stop fearing for her fëa. She might not have a child to tie her to this world, but she had several other things now. Astrid had helped her adapt to her condition, and he had given her a purpose that she seemed to count as more blessing than burden. He could only hope that the coronation and all that followed would not destroy that.

For Tauriel had become his hope. Looking at her reminded him that things _could_ change for the better, even if it was bought with great pain. She did not have the wisdom that only thousands of years of experience could bring, but in a sense, that had been a boon to her. She was not mired in the past, in millennia of old grudges and ancient wrongdoings. He still did not know what she had seen in that Dwarf, but she had seen _something_ – something worth risking banishment for. And if she could love a Dwarf, surely other Elves could at least work with them without begrudging it.

He knew that Dain would be sure to grate on his nerves in the days that followed, and he would need Tauriel near him, to remind him why he was doing any of this to begin with. She had given much for the sake of these Dwarves; he would not see her sacrifice be in vain. He owed it to her – she had, in a sense, woken him up, but it was not only that. He wanted to hear her laugh again, to see her smile without pain. He knew that some of that pain would never leave her, but he wished her to know joy once more.

Dawn was swiftly giving way to morning when he crossed the cobbled courtyard to the guesthouse. Here and there he could still see scars of the battle, but Dale was well on its way to its former glory. The pale rays of sunrise gilded the stone, glittering off the dew that had fallen in the night. No matter how minutely it was described to Tauriel, nothing could equal the sight of it – he himself might only have one working eye, but it was enough. For a very long while he had bitterly cursed the loss of the other, but her affliction made him grateful his own had not been worse. She had a task to fulfill that could be performed by no other, but a blind King would be of no use to anyone. How terrible it was, that it would take seeing one of his own so wounded to make him appreciate what he still had.

Bard, his face grey with exhaustion, met him halfway across the courtyard. "I must snatch a few hours' rest, my lord," he said. "I am too old now to drink the night away with no effect. Do we leave for the mountain at noon?"

"We do," Thranduil said. "Tauriel is breaking her fast in your kitchen. Try not to startle her."

"Of course, my lord. Will she need any aid the girls cannot provide?"

"I do not think so. They did well for her last night. You may tell them so."

Bard gave him a tired smile. "I will, my lord," he said. "They will be pleased to hear it."

* * *

Dressing Tauriel, Sigrid decided, was far more fun than dressing herself.

She knew Tauriel was as unused to find clothing as she was, but you would never know it. Tauriel moved like a warrior and looked like a queen, but Sigrid merely felt foolish – all the more so beside such a beautiful Elf.

The green silk of the dress made the unusual hue of her hair stand out all the more, and the metallic thread of the embroidery glittered in the sunlight. This day she had a simple necklace of gold and opal, that she had once belonged to her mother. An equally simple golden circlet held her hair back from her brow, yet she was far more magnificent than any of the finest ladies of Esgaroth had ever been.

Sigrid's own dress had been a gift from the Dwarves, and it was the first truly grown-up piece of clothing she had ever owned. It was fine wool rather than silk, the better to keep out the spring chill, deep red in color and trimmed with a kind of soft black fur she had been told was ermine. It was worked over with gold embroidery so delicate she had hardly dared touch it until now. It was a dress fit for a princess, yet beside Tauriel, Sigrid felt clumsy and common.

That illusion shattered when Tauriel tripped over the trunk at the end of the bed, and let out a curse that would have made Sigrid's father blush. She had to have learned it from Old Astrid, who could out-swear a sailor.

"If I land on my face before all the Dwarves of Erebor, I will never forgive myself," she said. "Or the makers of this dress. How can silk be so _heavy_?"

"A question only a seamstress could answer," Amaniel said. "Should you trip, simply tell the Dwarves it is a sign of respect. They would hardly dare contradict you."

Tauriel burst out laughing. "True. Someone hand me my stick," she said. "I will not risk falling down the stairs and undoing all your preparations."

"You know the King will not let you bring it," Amaniel said, pressing it into her hand. "He would be too afraid you would accidentally hit someone."

"And he would be right to fear it. I will leave it with the horses."

There were a few newcomers to Dale that Sigrid would dearly love to watch Tauriel hit, accidentally or otherwise. Perhaps that could be arranged.

They made it down the stairs without incident, and from there out into the bright noon sunshine. Even now, it scarcely counted as warm, and she was glad her dress was wool.

Father, looking both very fine and as uncomfortable as she felt, fastened her cloak around her shoulders. "Let us hope none of us falls off our horses," he said, and he was only half joking. Of the family, only Tilda had taken well to riding lessons right off, and there had been little time to practice.

Amaniel led Tauriel onward to the Elvish party. Ally or no, Sigrid would freely admit that the King of the Woodland Realm utterly terrified her. All Elves seemed like creatures apart, but he might as well have been as remote as the moon.

And yet his aloof expression softened into something very like affection when he saw Tauriel. It was subtle, but it was there, and it made him seem more like a living being and less like an animated statue.

"My lord, can we not repeat my first experience at this?" Tauriel asked, slightly pained amusement in her tone.

"Very well," he said, sounding equally amused. "I will give you warning this time. On three."

He put his hands at her waist, and after counting, swung her up onto the horse as though she weighed no more than Tilda. Her hands scrabbled to find the horse's mane, but she did not slip or fall.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, while Amaniel adjusted her skirts for her.

The rest of the Elves mounted so gracefully that Sigrid was glad she had practiced in secret. Their King himself had no horse, but a massive stag with antlers as long as Tilda was tall. The creature was so huge and so distracting that at least no one was likely to notice if she fell off her own horse.

* * *

I disagree with Thranduil's belief that he would be of use to no one as King if he was blind, but he's the sort of person who _would_ think that. Next up is the coronation and Tauriel's meeting of Dís, and writing both of them has been a sucker-punch to the feels.


	5. Coronation

Yes, I've finally come back to this story, and it only took four months. In which Dáin's coronation happens, and Tauriel meets Dís. I don't know how often this one will be updated, because I'm really not entirely sure where I'm going with it yet.

* * *

Tauriel spent the short journey smelling and listening, trying to picture all that was described to her. She had never seen the Desolation as anything but, well, a _desolation_. Never had she gone to the Mountain before the dragon came, so imagining its current splendor was difficult, no matter how many people told her of it.

Her heart and her mind were remarkably steady as they approached; the peace the dream had given her held. The din issuing from the gates unsettled her, but the King kept hold of her arm even after she dismounted.

"I will not let you fall," he said. "And I will not allow you to be mobbed."

They crossed what she knew from memory to be a bridge, through the massive gates. From the sound of it, most of the Dwarves of the Iron Hills must have moved to Erebor.

"The floor is solid gold," Thranduil observed to her. "I wonder how _that_ happened. Dwarves do not make a habit of paving their halls with precious metals, and the dragon would not bother."

Tauriel tapped it with her foot. It did indeed feel entirely unlike stone. "I cannot imagine this hall could be bigger than ours at home, but it feels that way."

"These are vast enough. If the dragon did much damage, they have repaired it well. Here comes Balin – shall I put him off?"

"No, my lord," she said firmly. "Some diplomat I would be, if you frightened off all who wished to speak with me."

"As you wish." His tone was so dry that she was hard-pressed not to laugh.

"King Thranduil, Miss Tauriel, we have prepared an alcove a little away from all this," Balin said, and she had no doubt he was waving at the throng around them. "A crowd of Dwarves can be a bit much for anyone."

"Thank you, Balin," she said, knowing Thranduil would not do it. "It is certainly…loud."

He chuckled. "You've heard nothing yet. Wait until they've been two days in their cups."

"Joy," Thranduil deadpanned, and she almost elbowed him. He did not seem intent on making her task easy.

"It must be a sight worth…hearing," she said. To her surprise, they did not bump into a single person as they followed the old Dwarf, and she imagined the crowd parting like the sea before the fall of Númenor. But then, she could hardly imagine anyone wanting to get in Thranduil's way, Dwarf or not.

After a few minutes the din lessened, and he led her to sit on a stone bench softened by several fat cushions. With a wall at her back and two around her, she felt far less vulnerable.

"Surely so many Dwarves could not live in the mountain," she said.

"Oh, all the Dwarf kingdoms have sent emissaries," Balin said. "And the emissaries brought friends, and _they_ brought friends…it will be a coronation to remember, no matter what happens."

"I am sure it will," Thranduil said. "I have not seen a Dwarf coronation in three hundred years, but Thrór's does stick in the memory."

"What happened?" Tauriel asked.

"On the second day of feasting, some drunken fool set two of the tapestries alight, then decided to swing about on the candelabra, singing what was evidently a very filthy song in Khuzdûl, if the reaction was any indication."

"That would be my brother," Balin said, sounding chagrined.

To Tauriel's immense surprise, Thranduil _laughed_. "Dwalin? I would not have recognized him."

"He was only a lad," Balin sighed, "and he shouldn't have been let near the ale. I thought our mother was going to thrash the hide off him. I still don't know why she did not."

"I do not doubt the Thrór of those days would have found it more amusing than not. Coronations can be incredibly tedious affairs for the chief participant."

Tauriel had a horrible vision of Thranduil setting something alight himself. She did not care what unease she needed to feign to keep him near her – she was not letting him out of her sight. So to speak.

* * *

Seeing Tauriel again was something of a relief. Balin had been genuinely worried his request would break her, but he could not deny Dís. He saw now that he need not have been so concerned – though he still could not guess what effect _speaking_ to Dís would have on either one of them. He did not doubt they would all feel Thranduil's wrath if Tauriel came out of it overly grieved. The Elvenking was like a cat with one kitten, willing to claw anything that came near it.

At least everything for the coronation was ready, checked and checked again. Dáin had only to remember his lines, and then it was all over bar the drinking.

There was one who would not be celebrating, and no one would expect her to. Dís was still in deep mourning for her sons and brother, and would not be attending any of the festivities. The coronation alone would be hard enough for her – a bitter, loud reminder of all she had lost. Dwalin had told him that Thranduil had been worried Tauriel would take her own life, in Elvish fashion; they had all been just as worried about Dís. She had now no living family, and though Dáin had done everything he could to ease her, there were some hurts only time could heal – if they could be healed at all. Balin could only hope that meeting Tauriel would be a blessing rather than a curse.

The coronation was impressive, Thranduil supposed, if one went in for such things. It was very…_Dwarven_, at least until the solemnity of the oaths, which were much the same across all races.

Dáin certainly cut a kingly figure in his robes of green velvet and sable. The Dwarf might be crude, irreverent, and profane, but his eyes and his voice were serious as he repeated the oaths of his forefathers.

"If I receive loyalty, loyalty I will give. If my people hunger, I will hunger. I will deal with friends in fairness, foes in strength. All Dwarves will find shelter in within my halls in time of need. My people are as my children, and I will care for them as a father. This do I swear, all the days of my life.

His speech was met with thunderous applause. Though Thranduil had warned Tauriel beforehand, she still jumped beside him, and he laid a hand on hers.

"The hall will not collapse," he said, leaning close enough to be heard, "no matter what the noise."As he had hoped, his words made her smile.

The other Elves in his retinue looked rather uncomfortable, but the men and women who had come with Bard happily joined in the cheering. He had hoisted his youngest up onto his shoulders, and she was madly waving a flag bearing the crest of Dain's kin.

The crowd rose as Dáin passed by, and Thranduil reflected that if they had to have a Dwarf for a neighbor, they could do worse. Dáin was obnoxious (and had, in fact, threatened to split Thranduil's head open), but he was utterly straightforward, and likely could not prevaricate to save his life. There would be no need to fear any subtle machinations on his part.

It would be a strange thing, having a new King Under the Mountain, but perhaps not a bad one. Whatever Dáin's faults, he was not Thrór, and with Tauriel to act as a buffer between him and Thranduil, the inevitable offenses might be kept at a minimum. Dáin was hotheaded, and Thranduil knew he was not the most patient being in Middle-Earth himself.

"What is happening, my lord?" Tauriel asked.

"Dáin and his councilors are passing. Soon, I think, they will open the feasting."

There was one Dwarf who was not near bursting with joy – a dwarrowdam in the middle of the procession. She carried herself with great poise, but her face was a mask, and her grey eyes were wells of anguish. This had to be the Lady Dís.

Thranduil could not imagine what she must be feeling in this moment. Losing his wife had nearly killed him, but at least he had Legolas to think of. Dís had lost both sons and her brother, and Thranduil did not know how long her husband had been dead. No, he could not deny her the chance to speak with Tauriel, however uneasy it made him. Even now he might have little use for Dwarves as a whole, but he was a father, and he knew what he would feel if he were to lose Legolas.

Legolas, who was somewhere in the wide world. He was as well-trained a warrior as he could be, but still Thranduil worried. He suspected any parent would, regardless of race.

Dís turned her head, and her eyes widened when she saw Tauriel. Following her when she broke free of the procession might be best, and he said as much to Tauriel.

"Of course, my lord," she replied. "I think it better to do this before the feasting anyway." She would, he was sure, need it as a distraction later – and a Dwarven feast was nothing if not distracting.

* * *

Balin had watched Dís all through the coronation. She was a tough old dwarrowdam, but still he wondered how she did not break. By all rights it should be her brother on that dais, and she had to be feeling it ever more keenly as the ceremony dragged on. She might as well have been a statue for all the animation she showed.

Her mask fractured for a moment when she saw Tauriel in the crowd, and he hoped for the hundredth time that meeting with the Elf-maid was not an utterly terrible idea. Dís was more fragile than she would ever want anyone to know, and doubtless Tauriel was the same. He did not miss the grip she had on Thranduil's hand.

When the procession finally ended, he touched Dís's elbow. "It's over now," he said. "Come and rest. I think she will speak with you, if you want."

"I do," Dís said grimly. "I cannot be alone yet."

He did not wonder why. They broke away from the line, waiting in the mouth of the hallway for the Elves to pass. Sure enough, Thranduil and Tauriel quietly left the group, making their way as unobtrusively as possible – which wasn't very, given who they were.

"If you are sure, Tauriel," he was saying softly.

"_Yes_, my lord," she said, exasperated.

"I've had much the same conversation with Lady Dís these last days," Balin said. "If you will follow us, King Thranduil. This meeting is best held in private."

Dís was watching Tauriel with open curiosity, which Tauriel would doubtless return if she could see. Her milky eyes were so unsettling that Balin could not look at her for long. The scar of the wound that caused her blindness was almost unnoticeable thanks to their sheer strangeness.

Follow they did, while Thranduil quietly described their surroundings to her. There was not a great deal to describe; compared to the opulence of the great halls, this corridor was quite simple.

"Let me walk, my lord," she said, and he released her arm with very obvious reluctance. Even then he hovered beside her, and Balin thought his cat-and-kitten analogy was more than apt.

She made a strange clicking sound with her tongue, and after a few experimental steps moved forward with confidence. Still Thranduil hovered, as though waiting for her to trip over some invisible obstacle.

Tauriel must have realized it, for she paused her clicking long enough to turn her blind eyes to him. "My lord, I am not going to stumble on air," she said dryly. Unfortunately, she was still walking, and without her clicking to guide her, she was about the veer into a wall.

Thranduil grabbed her arm before she could actually collide with it. She reached out with her free hand, fingers tracing the stone, and sighed.

"You were saying?" he said.

She scowled in his general direction, but said nothing. Likely she knew there was no point.

When they reached Dís's chambers, he helped her onto a low sofa – very low, for an Elf – and left her with obvious reluctance.

"Still I question the wisdom of this," he said, when he and Balin had retreated to the hallway.

"You're not alone in that," Balin sighed, "but I cannot deny Dís any potential comfort she might find. We all grieve Thorin and the lads, but not like her."

"They were her brother and her sons. None _could_ mourn them as she does."

Balin had to marvel at the change in the Elvenking. Not so very long ago, he would have dismissed Dís and her grief – would have dismissed the entire lot of them, consequences be damned. Tauriel must be a stark, ever-present reminder of that terrible day; with her around, he could not push the entire incident to the back of his mind. "We should not listen," he said, beckoning Thranduil to follow him. "I cannot, but I know you can."

Thranduil very obviously did not want to leave the door, but Balin was right, and he had to know it. He followed with obvious reluctance. "I cannot help but worry for her," he said, as they entered an empty council chamber. "I know what it is she feels. Losing my wife nearly destroyed me."

"Young she is, by the standard of your people," Balin said, "and the young are more resilient. She will heal, in time. She has eternity to do it."

"I can only hope she manages while all of you are still alive," Thranduil sighed, sitting on the table rather than one of the too-small chairs. "This task I have set her is a double-edged sword. I know Tauriel – she will grow fond of you, only to lose you, one by one. I know it is said among others that the Eldar isolate themselves because we believe mortals beneath us, and while that is true for some, it is not why. To us your lives are so fleeting, and upon your deaths, our fates are sundered until the end of the world. Even had Kili survived the battle, even had he lived to be the oldest Dwarf in the history of Middle-Earth, still their parting would have come too soon for her."

While Balin had known much of this, he had never truly given it much thought before. To him, his own life had seemed at times very long; he was nearly four hundred years old. To Thranduil, who had lived who knew how many thousands, it must seem short indeed.

"We feel the same about Bard and his children," he sighed. "Old though I am, I might well outlive his youngest. It's no great wonder, really, why there are not more real friendships between all our races. Not when so many things are unequal in ways that will only cause pain in the end."

Thranduil was quite surprised to hear such wisdom coming from the mouth of a Dwarf. Tauriel would no doubt chastise him for it, but he genuinely would not have expected to find a philosophical Dwarf. Though Balin was right, Thranduil was simply constitutionally incapable of admitting so aloud. Instead he said, "Would that I had the foresight to know how the conversation between Tauriel and Lady Dís will end."

"You're not alone in that," Balin sighed. "We won't know until it's over."

* * *

Dís, still so mired in grief, had not known what to expect of the Elf-maid who had saved her youngest once, and whose sight had been lost trying to save him again. She had no idea what she hoped to gain from this conversation, or if there was anything to be gained at all – she simply felt compelled to have it. She needed to see this girl with her own eyes – even if Tauriel could not see her.

"I have something for you," the Elf said, fishing through the small pouch at her belt. "Kili gave it to me before the battle, to be returned when I found him again. It belongs to you."

Dís felt her breath catch. In the Elf's long, slender fingers was the runestone that had sealed Kili's promise to return to his mother alive. "You have kept this, all this time?"

"I could not let them bury it with him," she said. "It has..helped me, in the last months. Perhaps it may help you."

Dís did not know that anything could help her, but she was nevertheless touched that the offer was made. She had all but forgotten the stone, in truth; now that she took it, and ran her fingers over the runes, she did not know how she could have. He had given her an exasperated sort of grin when she handed it to him, so confident in his own immortality that he did not see why such a promise was necessary, but humoring her nonetheless.

Dís did not cry, but only because she was unable to do so in front of another – even in front of someone who could not see her. "Keep it," she said hoarsely, pressing the stone back into the Elf-maid's fingers. "I have so many of his things already. If this brings you comfort, it is yours."

"I tried to save him," Tauriel said, her voice breaking. "I am so sorry I could not. I gave everything I had to give, and it was not enough. I would have died for him."

Privately, Dís had wondered about this Elf-maid, ever since the surviving members of the Company first spoke of her. What right had any Elf to grieve her son, having knowing him so little time? Oh, the girl had been blinded, but had it really been in defense of Kili?

Seeing her now, Dís had her answers. It did nothing to lessen her grief, but it put some fears and quiet resentments to rest. She was not glad, precisely, that Tauriel should mourn so deeply – Dís was not cruel enough to wish that on anyone – but it eased her heart a little, knowing there was one more person who had loved her Kili. All the Company grieved her sons and brother, but all save Balin seemed to fear sharing it with her, as though they thought doing so would somehow break her.

Who had Tauriel to share her grief with? Oh, her King seemed anxious as a hen with one chick – a sight which would have amused Dís, under any other circumstances – but there were surely none in her life who would understand her love for a Dwarf. Between that and the loss of her sight, it was a wonder the girl had not killed herself.

"How do you do it?" Dís asked, unable to help herself. "How do you carry on?"

Tauriel was silent for a long moment, gripping the runestone. "In truth, I do not know," she said at last. "At first, I was determined to Fade – to will my own death. No one I knew was willing to let me. Then the King gave me a purpose, and a tutor to aide me in my blindness – not that I have had a great deal of chance to use it here. He tells me that the pain of such a loss never truly fades, but that it can be lived with, if one has a reason."

"And he would know." Dís realized, as if for the first time, that never in her memory had there been a Queen of the Woodland Realm. "What purpose did he give you?"

"To build peace between the Woodland Realm and Erebor. He knows, I think, that he and King Dain will never truly get along, because the ancient grudge between our people runs deep. Kili and I overcame that, for however brief a time. I think he thinks I can offer him a perspective he would not otherwise have."

"And can you?"

"If he will listen. So far, he has – though I confess I fear what mischief he will get up to, without me to hear it. He can be capricious as a child, when he wants to be."

For the first time since she had heard news of her family's death, Dís very nearly smiled. From all she remembered of the Elvenking, that description was quite apt. "He takes good care of you, does he?"

"Surprisingly so. Shortly after I recovered from my injuries, he shared some things with me that I will not repeat. In some ways we have mutual understanding that I would have not have foreseen. He does not understand why I loved Kili, nor do I think he ever will – but he understands that I did. He accepts, even if he cannot comprehend. I can ask for no more than that."

"It's more than I'd ever have expected," Dís said bluntly. "We were never on good terms with your King, before."

"He does not make it easy, if he does not wish to," the girl said dryly, "though, and please do not take offense, but I do not think King Thrór helped."

"No," Dís sighed, "he did not, even before the gold-sickness took him. We Dwarves are a stubborn race, but he took it much too far by half."

Tauriel gave a half-smile. Mahal, but her eyes were unnerving – they were not gruesome, not disfiguring, but they looked beyond unnatural. She could use them to her advantage, if anyone dared tell her so. "My King does not wish for history to repeat itself, but he is who he is. He hopes that I might be an effective mediator, whenever he and King Dáin inevitably clash. Though I confess, I have no idea how to be one. I did not have nearly enough time with Kili to truly learn about Dwarves – I still do not know what might offend, if I get it wrong. And it is not as though I can read anyone's expression anymore," she added, more than a little bitterly. "Every time I think I have resigned myself to my blindness, something reminds me of all I have lost. Sometimes I wish…I think…."

She fell silent, and Dís let her. She'd find words in her own time.

"I have told no one this," she said at last, "but I have wished, so many times, that if I could not have saved Kili, I could have at least died with him. Still we would be parted until the end of the world, but Mandos would not leave me like _this_."

Dís reached out and took her hands – cool, and surprisingly callused. "Do not ever wish that," she said. "_Ever_. Kili would not wish you to grieve him forever."

"But I will," Tauriel said, returning her grasp. "The memories of the Eldar do not dull or fade with time. It is why so few Elves dare love mortals. I do not know why Eru is so cruel, as to separate us all after death. There would be less strife in the world, if we did not know that our fates would be forever sundered."

"I do not pretend to know the workings of the Valar," Dís said, "but I cannot believe it to be that absolute. Not that any of us will know before our time on this earth is over."

"I hope that you are right," Tauriel said. "I would like to believe it. I know none who have passed through the Halls, who could tell me it is one way or the other."

"You stay away from those Halls," Dís said firmly. "My people respect you. They will listen to you, as they might not your King. And, quite frankly, the fact that you can stand him will make them think better of him."

That actually earned her a real smile, albeit a bittersweet one. "I will keep that in mind, when he hovers excessively. And if he does not hover, he makes certain someone else does. I am certain it is part of the reason Bard's daughters have trailed after me everywhere here. Although considering I walked right off the edge of a parapet at home, it is not without reason. At least I landed in water."

Dís winced. She knew Elves were durable, but _still_. "Well, Kili would be glad someone is looking after you, since he can't do it. He would not wish you to be alone."

"That is one thing I am never," Tauriel said, a little dryly. "Perhaps someday I will be entrusted to make my own breakfast. In about five hundred years."

* * *

Thranduil was unspeakably relieved when Tauriel and Dís emerged, both looking somewhat lighter. It was evident that each had been through some manner of agony, but whatever they had spoken of seemed to be a help, not a detriment.

"You are welcome, Tauriel," Dís said, her voice somewhat hoarse, "any time. You should return when the halls are not so full you cannot hear yourself think."

"I will, Lady Dís. Perhaps when next we meet, we will have something better to speak of."

"I am sure you will find something," Thranduil said. "There is a chair in front of you, Tauriel – stay where you are."

She sighed. "Do you see what I mean, my lady?"

"I rather think I do," Dís said, and there was actually a touch of dryness to her tone. "Balin, I am going to rest now. Go eat."

"Yes, my lady," Balin said dutifully. Thranduil had a feeling that very few dared argue with Dís.

The old Dwarf led Tauriel Thranduil back down the corridor, and into a level of noise that made her jump a little.

"There are more Dwarves here than I have ever before seen in one place," Thranduil said, bending low so she could actually hear him. "Even Thrór's coronation was not _this_ crowded. Banquet tables have been set out in the entrance hall as well, and they are as full as full can be. The visitors must have brought food with them, because there is simply no way Erebor could have this much on hand so soon after winter."

Her steps became noticeably more hesitant until Balin came to her left side; with him there, she need not fear kicking anyone as she passed. Not that she needed to fear it anyway, as all who saw her automatically drew out of her way.

"It is a good thing I did not bring my stick," she said. "In a crowd like this, it would be only a matter of time before I put someone's eye out."

"There's a few I wish you _would_ do that to," Balin said. "Your delegation's in the main dining hall, if we can ever get there. I don't think anything's been set fire to yet, but the night's young."

"I will tell you when to duck, Tauriel," Thranduil promised. "Master Balin, I trust your brother will not be giving a repeat performance?"

"He won't," the old Dwarf snorted. "Others might, but likely not 'til tomorrow. We're safe enough for now." He paused. "I hope."

"That is not encouraging," Tauriel said, as they passed into the dining-hall. Wisely, both Elven and Edain delegations had been sat at a table backed by a wall, so they would not be completely surrounded by boisterous, feasting Dwarves – a sight which could be a bit much for a non-Dwarf. Thranduil was surprisingly hungry, and he was certain Tauriel was, too.

* * *

Across the hall, Dáin watched the pair. He knew the lass had been to speak with Dís, and by Balin's expression, it must have gone well. At least the blasted forest fairy seemed to be taking care of her, as Dwalin reported, loading her plate for her and arranging it in some deliberate fashion.

Dear Aulë, were her eyes unnerving. They made her look like something not entirely natural, though even he had better tact than to say so. Even some of her own people seemed unsettled by them.

What manner of life could she have, like that? Dáin didn't know much about Elves, but he _did_ know they were creatures of light. He'd never heard of a blind Elf before.

Well. She'd muddle through. Her sort always did seem to.

* * *

Long chapter is long. Poor Dís – think meeting up was the best thing for both of them.


	6. Gift

In which Thranduil gives Tauriel a gift, she discovers why Dwarven ale is a dangerous thing, and Sigrid confides some things that make her wonder ever more about Edain.

* * *

Balin might have to pay attention to the niceties, but the crowd itself was Dwalin's job. He watched it with an eagle eye, for now foregoing (much) ale.

It wasn't half as rowdy as it would be later. The delegation from Dale, unused to such potent ale, were all well and truly drunk – even Bard and his two eldest. The little one, Tilda, was using their distraction to steal a whole pie and scurry off with it.

Dwalin wasn't fond of much, but among Dwarves, children were a rarity, and as a result, they couldn't help a fondness for children of any sort. The lad was growing strong working in the forges, and was eager to learn anything anyone had to teach him, and the youngest looked at everything with a wide-eyed wonder he was surprised she'd managed to retain after the dragon and the battle.

The elder girl, Sigrid, was usually more reserved, but from all he understood she'd had to act as mother to Tilda when their own mum died. It took a bit to draw her out, but Dwarven ale would do that and then some.

Most of the Elves, by contrast, looked…stiff. Not exactly _uncomfortable_ – he doubted they were capable of showing that – but they weren't enjoying themselves. None but Tauriel, who had her head tilted to one side, listening intently. The forest fairy was talking to her – according to Balin, he spent much time describing everything around her.

That really was a relief. They'd all feared she'd suffer some punishment for Kili, as though her blindness wasn't punishment enough, but if anything, the sprite seemed to have softened a bit – where she was concerned, anyway. Dwalin had no doubt he was still as much of a bastard as everyone else, but to her he was a mother hen, which was more amusing than it probably ought to be. At least, when he wasn't threatening anyone he thought might upset her.

When the week was up, they'd talk trade. Hopefully, if she was there to restrain the sprite, they'd actually get something done.

* * *

Tauriel had no idea what time it was when they left, but she'd had so much to drink that she was actually tipsy, and nearly fell off her horse when Thranduil swung her onto it. The ride back to Dale was slightly terrifying, but when she turned her face to the sky, she was struck by a sudden, very deep melancholy.

She could feel the chilly prickle of starlight on her skin, but she couldn't see it. She'd never see it again – not the stars, nor the moon, nor the sun. Oh, she could navigate well enough in her blindness at home, and she had a purpose here, but she was struck sharply now with all that she had lost. The world of light was barred from her forever.

The change in the sound of the horses' hooves told her they'd passed through the city gates, and she hoped she could hold her tears at bay until she had some privacy in which to cry. It had been months since her affliction had made her weep, but she suspected it would do so from time to time for the rest of her life.

She bowed her head when the King helped her down from her horse, not wanting him to see her face, but, curse him, he seemed to know something was amiss.

"Tauriel, what is it?"

"Nothing, my lord. I'm just very tired."

He touched her chin, guiding her face up. "Do not lie to me, Tauriel," he said, and while it was a command, it was a gentle one.

"It is just – I can feel the stars, but I cannot see them. I will never see them again." Her eyes, her useless eyes, burned, but she would not cry in front of her King.

He was quiet for a moment. "Tauriel, come with me," he said, taking her arm and leading her away from the others. By the quiet of the streets, she thought that all who hadn't gone to Erebor must have long since gone to bed. The night air was downright cold, but she didn't really mind; it cut through some of the fog of the alcohol.

"I understand, to an extent, what you are going through," he said. "Losing sight in the one eye was harder than I thought it would be, for all the other had been spared. Yes, I still had my sight, but my vision was reduced by half. Adjusting was…not easy."

"But you can still see," Tauriel said, hating how her voice cracked.

The King sighed. "I want to try something, Tauriel," he said. "I have not before now because you are so young that I fear it will not work, and I did – do – not with to disappoint you. It may not work now, but I would like to try nonetheless."

"Yes, my lord," she said, wondering what in Eru's name he meant by that.

She jumped a little when he stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her and taking her hands in his. Before she could ask what he was doing, she –

-she _saw_.

"What –?" she breathed. The stars were indeed massed in force above her – thousands, millions, glittering like diamonds in the black velvet of the sky.

She felt him breathe a sigh of relief. This close, she could feel the beat of his heart against her back. "You are seeing through my eyes," he said. "Well, eye. I am not Lady Galadriel – my mental abilities are nowhere near as strong – and you are so young that you as yet have none. I had little hope that this would work, or I would have tried it sooner."

"Thank you, my lord," she whispered, and now she wept, but for a very different reason. Never, in her six hundred and seventeen years on this earth, had she seen anything so beautiful. Yes, she would lose it again as soon as he released her, but she didn't care. Having it now was enough.

"Shall we walk the city?" he asked. "You ought to see what it has become."

Tauriel smiled through her tears. "Yes, my lord," she said, and paused. "My lord, will you – will you look at me? Everyone tells me I am not disfigured, but I would rather see for myself."

He turned her in his arms, still keeping hold of her left hand, and for the first time in months, she saw her own face.

Her eyes…well, quite frankly, her eyes were a little terrifying, but beyond that, little had changed. The scar was fading, and the truly unnatural white of her eyes made it nearly unnoticeable.

For the second time, Tauriel smiled. "You know," she said, "I think I could easily intimidate someone like this. I had no idea I looked so unsettling."

Incredibly, the King actually _laughed_. "Keep your eyes wide when we meet with Dain's Council," he said. "I think we will get all we ask for. Now come – let us see the city, before it wakes."

It was indeed much improved – shockingly so, in such a short amount of time – but even had it still been a ruin, she would have thought it beautiful. Clearly the Dwarves had been at work, for Edain weren't capable of such craftsmanship. It was quiet and calm, and though there were still a few traces of the battle here and there, they were _very_ few.

"When you despair, Tauriel," he said, "when you feel you can bear the darkness no longer, come to me. I will take you through the halls and into the forest, and show you whatever you wish."

"My lord, I have no idea how I can repay you for it," she said, taking in the sight of the moonlight with outright greed.

"You already have," he said, "and in dealing with these pigheaded Dwarves, you will continue to do so."

They walked until dawn, and watched the sunrise, and though she had to relinquish her borrowed sight upon returning to Bard's house, she didn't mind. Knowing that it was there – that she was not to spend forever in the dark – was a blessing beyond mere words. She could live in the darkness, so long as she knew there could be respite, if she needed.

* * *

When Tauriel woke the next morning, it was to a truly impressive headache. Rarely in her life had she suffered after a night of drinking, but she wasn't really surprised Dwarven ale could do it. She groped her way downstairs for some water and then crawled back into her bed, incredibly grateful they didn't need to go back to Erebor for another round of culinary and alcoholic excess. She had enjoyed herself, but one day was enough.

Last night she'd dreamt of stars, and it made the blindness much easier to bear today. Thranduil had shown her the inside of Bard's house as well, so that she could keep the picture in her mind as she navigated it later, without his sight.

To have that…even with her aching head, she felt so much lighter. She might dwell in darkness, but she could catch glimpses now of the world of light – she could visit, even if she could no longer live there.

She heard rustling from the other side of the room – by the scent, it was Sigrid, since Tilda's was long faded. "Do you feel as awful as I do?" the girl groaned, and Tauriel could easily imagine her clutching her head.

"Likely close. Eldar have more of a tolerance for drink, but apparently Dwarven ale can defeat us." Just now, Tauriel was actually _glad_ she was blind, because she remembered how painful light could be on mornings such as this.

"I think that I will never drink it again. The effect is pleasant, but the after-effect isn't worth it _at all._"

Tauriel laughed, and immediately winced. "No," she said. "No, it is not. Whenever you come to train with our healers, you must avoid our wine. Everyone will try to force some upon you, but I've never yet seen an Edain drink any and not heartily regret it the next day."

"I will do my best. I wonder if Father and Bain feel as terrible as I do."

"They did." Amaniel's voice made Tauriel jump. "The King has sent you both some of this, if you'll sit up."

Tauriel did, with great effort, and Amaniel pressed a cool glass bottle into her hand. Its contents smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, and when she took an experimental sip, it tasted of them, too. She took a healthy gulp, and immediately felt her headache ease.

"That he has this explains a great deal," she said, even as she heard Sigrid sigh with relief. "I have long wondered how he can drink so very much and never seem to feel the effects at all. I suspect he wishes to keep this a secret?"

Amaniel laughed. "You suspect correctly. Come now, let's get you dressed. We've no formal functions today, so we need not wrestle you into one of the fancier gowns."

_Thank Eru for that_. "What _are_ we doing today?"

"Resting, mostly, but Astrid's family wishes to meet you. Eru knows what she's told them about her visit to the Woodland Realm."

"Probably a great many things they ought not to know," Tauriel laughed. "Most of the Edain think us remote and otherworldly. Finding out that we are not must come as a nasty shock."

"It's a shock, yes, but not nasty," Sigrid said. From the sound of it, she was struggling into her own clothes. "I know this sounds insulting, but it makes it easier to see you as people, not…not some manner of alien being entirely."

"That's not insulting," Tauriel said, swinging her legs off the bed. "The King might prefer to have an air of mystery to outsiders, but I think the rest of us, once we've _met_ outsiders, do not. Until five years ago, I had met very few Edain, and no Dwarves. You are younger than me by many centuries, Sigrid, but you have seen more of the world than I." And how ironic, that Tauriel had only started seeing it once she could not longer _see_ anything.

Sigrid laughed. "Not really," she said. "Not until now. I'd never been away from Esgaroth, and in my lifetime, traders were few and far between. I'd never seen any Dwarves, either, or Elves, though I know Father had met a few of you. I always wished he would take me with him, but I couldn't leave Tilda." She paused. "I've never told Father – or anyone – this, but there's more than one reason I don't want children. It's not just that it's risky, but…well, I've already raised one. I could never do the same things as other girls my age, because I had Tilda to look after. I love my sister, but…well. She's still too young to leave much to her own devices."

The thought was so very strange to Tauriel. Death by childbirth was so rare among the Eldar, and when it _did_ happen, the entire community aided the father in caring for the child. The responsibility didn't fall on any one person. "The more I speak to you, Sigrid, the more I realize how little I know of Edain," she said. "If your father is too busy to mind her in your absence, we will bring her with us. Elves love children, for we have so very few; you will not need to worry that she will not be looked after."

She wished she could see the girl's face. "That…would be wonderful," Sigrid said.

"I'll see about arranging things," Amaniel said. "We'd best not keep Astrid waiting too long. The woman has a sharper tongue than anyone I have ever known. I think the only person she hasn't thrashed with it at some point is the King."

"You are likely right," Tauriel said grimly. "If she had stayed longer, though, I suspect it would only have been a matter of time."

"It might _still_ be only a matter of time," Amaniel said.

* * *

I had to throw poor Tauriel a bone. I just had to, and so did Thranduil. He's still got a huge sense of misplaced guilt about what's happened to her (not that he's about to let her _know_ that any time soon.)


End file.
